There was an artist once/
a painter/
and her colors,
they bore her soul.
She painted with star dust
moon rocks
fragments of
broken bones/ crushed
with the Earth,
pieces of sand,
fur,
and blood.
And sometimes/
at night,
her paintbrush would
take flight/
out to Jupiter/
and to Mars,
bringing back fire gemstones,
& powder-resin
that mixed with
the glowing
residue
of her hard-earned tears.
She would cry almost hourly
not knowing who or
what for.
Her method/
her way,
was of the Elven Witch
giving purification rites/
of sorts/
shedding/ immortalized tears
of the Divine
Mother/who
ate the women
and children of
yonder/
gathering them/
up into her
creviced form--
Molten lava,
magma core.
Their bones,
now whittling in the Earth.
Their stories,
long since forgotten---
never told/ just
aged out / over time...
and so she cries
for them/
those whose stories
were never told
as her's was,
and will be/
one day
(or not),
Then forgotten, too
remaining but a memory of
the celestials'
Great Bodies within
Great Galaxies/
too many,
an infinite number
to count.
"...and when I am gone,
dear children,
your stories will be carried within me/ held;
sworn to secrecy,
the desires that/ which
bring us back:
those laced in greed/
ever forgetful
of the Mother
who gave you
life."
"My skin now burns."
She weeps tears of rain
screams of thunder/ "turn back, go back, go back"
quakes;
tsunamis,
a hurricane of grief,
[the] polar extremes
of her love (a warning)
and anguish for us.
which we instigated.
She opened up her heart
and they took from her, abusively,
her soul.
© 2022 PYTHIA/YANG
Unsplash image by Marieke Verhoeven