the dying goddess
Her summers have passed
Gone are the springtime rabbits, fields overflowing with grain,
The rush of waterfalls, singing of birds.
The dancing of wind in the trees
whose voices would sing ancient secrets.
She is beautiful,
A face deserving of the utmost reverence and adoration,
is black and blue with blows.
I too, have struck her lovely countenance.
She seemed so strong, so resilient, so eternally beautiful
None of us thought she could be destroyed.
Her blood, once flowing garnet wine,
Now is cold as the Northern snows.
Her voice which rang with the sound of rivers and birds
Now howls as the desert wind.
I did not want her to
But it is too late.
I sit at her withered
side, my hands covered in her blood,
Attending her last wishes.
Even still, after all I have done,
She loves me, as she loves all her ungrateful children.
With tired eyes, she turns to me slowly,
Her voice a dried husk whisper,
"Was it Beautiful?"
I wipe a long snow white strand from her face, trying not to cry.
"It was the best," I manage to choke out.
I watch the light in her eyes flicker and gently burn away
as I draw my last breath.