For Fear of the Forest




There were those that feared the forest,
feared its mighty upwardness,
its solidness,
its reach up into the valley of stars,
and were jealous of the attention the wind gave.
And they gnawed like tunnel rats on their resentments,
on the bare bones of their grievances,
 until they mushroomed in the dark.
And they came like petty purse snatchers in the night

to cut the trees,

brave only while under shrouded dark cover,  
creeping away like a contemptible mist.

The leaves were shaken and scattered 
and the branches splintered,
 broken open, 
bleeding sap onto the mourning ground,
while the cries rang through the maelstrom’d air,
and the ground trembled with the sound of the stampede,
of the many coming to rescue.
The leaves were gathered
and the roots bound and covered with care.
The forest will never die,
and the pitiless dread that slides in disguised as righteous,
should never be confused with right.
Terror is a tool in the clumsy hand of a coward,
and those tools have a way of slipping and biting…
The roots that spread like veins underground can wait
until the time to grow again.
No burning,
no slashing,
no puny prick of a delusional insect
 biting with crabbed and craven intent
at the feet of the giant
can topple it.
Stand tall,
 stand together ,
and reach again toward the valley of the stars,
the city of light.

About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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