Awakenings

For years she had slowly slid from well cared for home to musky boxes and rugs. Sitting in a chair, watching old movies, pretending the devastation around her had not occurred. Her senses deadened, she neither saw the clutter nor smelt the molding curtains and blackened sheets. She had no thoughts or energy for family, friends or foe, much less her beloved art molding in a box. Every once in a while, a quicksilver dream would pop its head above the murkiness that surrounded her core, only to dissolve in lack of interest. The life blood of her inner landscape dripped and pooled around her veneer, as with agony her soul dies again. Her eyes turn inward at the cry of death and she sees the carnage that has been created. She asks the ageless questions, What is untrue, What do I know and wish I didn’t, What rotted corpse have I let lie within me? What, natural to her being, kills each bud she tries to raise? At attention now, she looks at what she cannot bear to see. Awakening from the winter, she rises stronger, more furiously determined, realizing she has slowly starved to the point of a gun to the head. The questions have been raised, now she must root out the answers, before the land is barren, no spark of life remaining. The small speckle of light must blossom and fill all her horizons within the darkened cavities of her soul. The wise woman seeks the power that comes from the deep dusky gloom. Even when the bones appear quite cold, Still they can to vibrancy return. She slowly sings them back to life.