Ohwoaheoahr

Final Summit | Iona Patrick | Colored pencil

Ohwoaheoahr by Emily Fleming

I love the forest 

But I hate the trees 

Yet I paint the trees 

Then I hate the branches 

And of what they remind me. 

I love the sea 

But it brings momentary peace 

I wish like the water I could flow free 

But these foul woods sequester me 

Hidden like a recluse by the pleading stream 

I yearn for the abounding depths and settle for shallow dreams. In this delusion I am imprisoned 

The branches like gates barring me from the heavens 

Not a field in sight nor clearing in the distance 

A dead fish gasping, waiting for a knife-wielding captain 

And the worst is the silence. The breaths echo as I pray my cries reach them. The wind carries empty responses, endeavors rendered useless They do not hear me breathing. 

They do not hear me breathe through the blood that fills my throat. I thought they would reach me. 

We lie limp among the dead leaves. 

We waited because they used to hear us. 

We know you hear us. 

And then as the squawks above us began to sound, hope was lost. Left to become one with the wretched mud, 

And feed the sinister skeletal branches looming above.