Posted in Originals, Poetry, Reflections, Travel Stories

They Cannot Live and Not Create

​When time was older than time

When women were like flowering trees

Children of the beautiful wild

They would flower and fruit

Dry up and lose

In seasons of their own making

The men stood guard 

To their wild woods

Feeding from their fruits

Sleeping beneath their shade

The women could afford humility

The women could afford being bowed

Not today, not anymore

Unless they wish to have 

Their bowed heads cut off

Their flowers and fruits ripped off

Their branches and trunks axed off

For the guardians themselves

Now hold the axes

Have long forgotten the cool shades

Deluded in seeing flowering 

As something sinful and lowering

The women cannot afford humility

Nor can they stop the flowering

Gravity is not a choice, its nature

They fruit, they bow, they are cut off

Sadly, they cannot change for anyone

Not even for their own lives

They cannot live and not create

For it is as good as being dead

And so they continue swinging

Between the realms death and life

Sometimes willing to die 

Sometimes hoping to survive . . .


Cover image ©thestonedstoryteller

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