Wilderness

Last night I was thinking about how I wish I could paint my pain.

I searched the internet, looking for an image that "fit."

I found hundreds of pictures.  Some made me cry.  Some made me mad.  Some stirred my empathy muscles - the hollow barrel of my solar plexus - like a butter knife, skimming the sides.

There were paintings in red.  And blue.  And black.  Some very prolific.  Some so powerful, the pain was nearly tangible.

Most of the artists seemed either bright-red angry or helplessly prussian.

I nod my head in agreement. "I feel that."

Still......nothing came close to depicting my pain.  Not that it's so bad, really.  It's just...my pain is ...elusive...tricky...almost like a cawing crow, in it's own way.

My journey through pain is much more like a jaunt in the wilderness.

A barren land of onyx  - with faintly feathered trees - stained droplets - and stroked sunlight - somewhere off in the distance.

That place over there...  

It's only...

A few 

barefoot steps

away -

upon an Earth, 

ignited.

And 

a short stint -

through 

that maize-tinged

maze.

A leap -

one last

thorny mound.

A saunter -

A stumble -

A rise -

One 

drenched 

tendril.  

I dashrunSCREAMfall.

I recline on a rock 

bathe in a stream 

and catch 

a lone butterfly 

in my skirt.  

 

I

am

not

here.

I

am

not

there.

I awaken.  Gaze out the window.  The tree leaves bow...heads heavy... rain-drenched.  Start the coffee.  Open the back door.

...

...

Thought to get my shoes on and dash out there.....see if I could stand in it......catch it in my hands.....

But, you and I both know what would happen.

I am a but a gypsy ~

in the wilderness.

Using demure words ~

as paint.