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Generational Abduction: A Willing Participant [1]
He snatched me out of my cradle and he forgot to put me back unharmed.
It was autumn, the cows were lowing, the hens making ready for roosting.
I remember the grasses, flowing like creeks, a field ripe with the harvest,
A large brown moth, the base of a tree, my mother's snow white forearms.
I was already beyond their understanding, like a season not yet come.
Into the swirling leaves I fell. Rushed faster than wind, on a barn's edge.
It was on the verge of snow and I was only wearing velvet slippers.
I entered into his domain, the very moment, that I forgot my own name.
His eyes were feasts of glitter and tinsel. I wanted to join the celebration.
Where the lakes were purple with swans, in forests so dim they shone,
Where golden fruits hung motionless, growing under a decreasing moon.
All my secrets were known by him. I lost my way home and wept alone.
Everything was a fabrication. He constructed my reality beneath a dome.
The trees flew by like streamers, as he led me to nowhere.
I was face down in mushrooms, abandoned by old trees, buried like a seed,
Imprisoned by reedy ponds, pulled into dark forests, by the shining ones.
We were very seldom alone. There was no time to be still.
He sang his lullaby like an owl, it was such a tragedy, his vanity.
We could only fly so high, we never got beyond the moon.
But he always returned for me and I always went with him.
It was so unreal, ... but I just couldn't wake up ...
I couldn't let go of his plan. I couldn't make my way home.
I wanted the greater lie to come, to be seduced by a dream.
Yet I hungered in his prison, within a moving bubble of conscious intention.
Everything a promise before me, spiraling, into an ever deepening complexity.
This strange food did not nourish me. I began to fade, in a world with no sun.
My skin turned a sodden shade of green, like dead fields in the evening rain.
The last thing that I saw, was a cottage, in a clearing, with a chimney.
A herb garden of lavander, roses climbing a gate, an apple, an oak tree,
The lit window, a wooden table, a patchwork quilt, in my empty room.
By that time I belonged to him, utterly estranged, from where I was born.
He is a tragedy, already defeated, bringing me to, his wedding of death. |
