The Oldest Journey
The oldest story we will ever know,
is the quest for the light,
that will inwardly show.
She lives where the days are cold and the nights are hot.
A place to loathe and moan; but love she cannot.
Her dreams like a play of a story often told,
providing the truth and knowledge to behold.
Her incarcerated spirit demands why?!
We cannot live until we die.
On the horizon she sees the beast.
Fear consumes her like a bitter feast.
Up he comes thick in muscle,
catching up to her panicked hustle.
With the beast came a freeze,
a starless night, pain and disease.
She can't breathe...
She starts to heave...
It’s a paralyzing cold.
Though, it is her we shall scold.
She finds a pond of quicksand.
Its warmth lures her from land.
It is a place where the beast
cannot stand; but only glare at the feast.
It's too dark to see the mother land.
Looking down she can't see her own hand.
The beast waits a malevolent distance away.
Piercing red eyes cut her as she cries in dismay.
She embraces the sinking sand,
lowers her eyes and refuses to stand.
She sinks faster yet.
Now the pain of regret.
The sand she sees as her savior,
is now the warden who enslaves her.
The beast grows as big as a boulder,
more and more she looks over her shoulder.
She can look but still can’t see,
her iris stained with negativity.
She lashes out, bites and claws.
Feels all the pain, sees all the flaws.
Her ears, now deaf by her own scream.
On her eyes, darkness sews a seam.
In her self-proclaimed tomb,
she begs for the womb.
Through the sorrowful salt,
slides a snake to make the pain halt.
As it winds around her,
it transforms to something greener.
The serpent lets her see,
the vine it now is, extending from the tree.
She struggles with the betrayal of fear,
is another enemy near?
Under her spell,
everything fell.
Is this hell?
Too early to tell.
Her eyes are still blurred,
so she sees through the third.
The sun rose behind her,
having brought her up stronger.
Peace she makes in the light
with the beast, and no longer takes flight.
The ocean wind blows in,
to sway her hammock again and again.
A place warm all around,
where no time is found.
Only the gentle breeze and soft sound.
Here the possible is unbound.
The oldest story ever known,
was the quest for the light,
that was inwardly shown.