WaterEarthFireAir

Part 1: Rain

Wilted roses

drop sun-bleached petals

that settle upon

the sapphire tomb

of blackened river water.

When all hope drains

the rain will wash away

the memories,

the nightmares,

and in their place

leave a brilliant

looming silence.

The door to the waterfall

is small and insignificant.

The key to the door

is a leaden heart.

The mind hushes when

dewdrops slip from leaves

and spiderwebs grow

damp from ice cold

morning teardrops.

Part 2: Soil

Foundations of stone

heavy hearted and cold,

whisper into the wind

stories of long dried blood

and softened clay

that makes the spirit shrivel.

The mountains hollow face

is home to the forgotten

birch trees

abandoned by the soil,

shadowed by the half moon,

thinning bark warmed

by the rising sun.

This is the offspring of the oak;

Saplings, with unfurling leaves

and twisted limbs

nurtured towards the sky

by elder branches,

just as a child

is raised with innocence,

with an inherited sense of wisdom

passed from ancestors

long dead.

The humble pigeon clings,

toes curled around

the single branch swaying

under the bridge

over the murky city pool

of swirling,

acrid smelling waste and water;

still the branch bends,

still the branch holds,

still the branch offers security

to all those who ask for it.

Part 3: Smoke

An orange glow stretches

from the fireplace,

snaking its nimble fingers

out into the living room

which land upon

a sleeping child

and beg for it

to wake and play.

The smoke mists

through the falling snow,

each flake

drifting to a stop and

splashing to the boiling ground

when it collides with the fervor

permeating the winter

wonderland

that has now transformed into

a charred shadow land.

Still the sun rises

and wakes us from our dreams.

Still the moon rises

and wakes us from our realities.

In the sky the sun rests

gazing over the world

crying silent tears

as war wages and gunshots fire,

crying silent tears

as babies are born and love blossoms,

crying silent tears

as wounds are animated,

crying silent tears

as old scars are wished away.

Part 4: Breath

Butterflies scatter,

and glide over the meadow

of poisonous wildflowers

and obese maggots,

wings beating upon

the sliver of courage stored

in the fiber of their being,

see the world as simple

see the world as small.

Who dreams with a cloak

of ignorance,

the falling stars have wept

rose-colored tears,

to the evening breeze;

Who flies without fear

is the fool,

for the ground is far,

but the clouds

are closer up here.

A soft breath upon

a frozen window

reveals a heart etched

upon the glass,

where passing sorrow is disposed

and the beauty of the world

is embraced by

a child naïve of sin.

The autumn draft escapes

under the door

and with it escapes the despair

but behind it trails

the wafting evidence of

beauty in the ugliest of places,

and ugliness in

the purest form of beauty;

human nature.