Red Cinnabar

Discard my clothes, my glamorous spoils
and fate me before the dispossessed
far removed from my gowns of tulle and
Walk me toward the peak of the mountain,
strip me of my name as I watch the infinite
Open my eyes to summer mornings,
the mute child is no longer rebellious
thundering the day and breaking the
chains; she now cradles children born in
time and without hope,
orphaned of demolished huts and murdered
parents when blood red flowers ripen
among the stalks
and the posture of trees show
the prevailing wind.
Don’t look back with doubt, Spirit, Mother
of the Moon and Goddess of the Night.
Instead shed light on the marching metal men
with their hoes, machetes, and shovels.
A timber mafia has emerged
plundering ecosystems and locals.
They walk among the grotesque fantastic
figures of your nightmares;
omens of confusion and disorder,
chopping the scenery one by one
erasing it so that the river of your village
no longer speaks your name as it flows.
The land and air effaced
seething with fond farewells.
Devil’s world, and flesh unite
with incandescent stars of lemon-
yellow. Death unspoken.

Theresa C. Gaynord likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences, of an out-of body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of an idyllic, pagan nature and the occult. She writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be a witch and a poet, (within the horror writing community) and she has been published in a number of magazines throughout the years. Read other articles by Theresa C..