Bringing Mud
to the bud of the lotus
One night, I find my way into the wood,
The path unclear and shrouded in the fog.
Daylight gone, moonbeams a suitable ray.
*
A beacon so desperately needed I,
Searching for rock's moss, a compass or star,
None arise but direction of the heart.
*
Blindly guided by beats beaneath the chest,
Wandering aimless searching for arrows-
To pluck them and return to their quiver.
*
Clawing at the grass, blades drawn from their sheath.
Softened from the soil's growth, not forged in fire.
My arms aren't weapons and beg to be quenched.
*
Clods of dirt thrust, newfound home in my fist,
Relinquished once found to be useless parched,
Thrown to the ground, seeds scattered in the wind.
*
On bended knee I surrender, open,
Eyes rain into the Earth, a waterfall,
Bringing mud to the bud of the lotus.
About the Creator
E.K. Daniels
Writer, watercolorist, and regular at the restaurant at the end of the universe. Twitter @inkladen
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