Mandala

Photo by Frances Gunn via Unsplash

Mandala

I am glued to the interior
of my thoughts.
                          A shredded
ballerina figurine
             dipped in gold.
Trees, water, sky.
             Autumn. Spring.
Autumn.                       Outside,
reality is thinning.

                          Paper coaster.
Tree sap in a dead limb.

Walking down the street.
Walking
                          through time.
A tunnel.
The senses dulled
                          to anything
but fear.
                          All words
             sound like ‘Run.’
Steps over water, along the dock.
             Darkness
under. Viscous,
                          tar-like.
An eyelid, blinking.

I can blot mountains
with my hand,
                          but not
this sunset. This
scream
             igniting the sky.
The trees split
                          open their heads
to contain the twilight.
A penitent
             wind blows in
an ache for snow.
                          The heat
sinks.
             A rock in a pond.
                          A shimmer
of tears.

I walk the labyrinth
             into the green
of the forest.                 Blue
             shards of sky
hit the ground at my feet.
Gold filigree
                          patches
paper wounds.
             There’s
no beast here.
                          Only the torn
             consciousness
suturing itself
                          into being.

First published in EcoTheo Review, Vol. 3, No 2, Spring 2020

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