Ritual.

Strong, solitude, solid
as the sacred
oak,
Thus spoke deafening
silence, drowning
roar,

Soar above, eyes
pierced deep
within,
That sacred line, cracking
bark to speak
again,

Green, seeping, deep
to heal,
Attending the wound of
which it cannot
feel,

Blessings, thrice, in
dressings, nice,
To fire, cleanse that
wretched soul,

Ribbons tethered, flapping
wind, weathered,
Never sinned, but fill the
hole,

Journey there, somewhere
without a care,
Strong, solid, in solitude
down there,

A ways back home, it
never burns away,
Drinking those eyes, praying
for just one more day...
-END-
(C) D.C. Chapman
10/25/2012