Pale skin, hermaphrodite,
an iconology of ideology
and mysticism. Prophetess
of the new age, barren
inspired by arcane smoke
and intoxicated on the influence
of the elders. The web spun
tells the future, a cutting stone
of rhetoric and spin, misdirection
in the minutia, divisible with wrongful
incarceration and the pretentious
desire to do the right thing for the wrong
reasons and to brag about it.
Half the body is dead. It seeks resuscitation,
resurrection, or reanimation; it will drink
the blood of the young to keep itself alive.
It will fill it with the fear of the children
to maximize the potion’s magic. It will
glutton-like drink the ambrosia while it
tells lies to preserve itself; it will tell lies to
preserve the original lie. It will paint false
pictures. It will sing songs to manipulate
the emotions and the energy they generate.
It will be lost in the blizzard of hate it has
instigated and demand respect for the
ghosts it has suffered, though they’ve
been long dead decades hence.
The diviner rises a Judas goat,
divides us by every detail,
segregates tolerance from love
and forgiveness from good will.
It turns the golden rule in on itself.
It creates a generator of negativity
and incubates the fear and ill will
till they burst like a solar flare
into the psyche of man. It
contaminates them further still
with assertions of disillusionment
as manufactured by artificial constructs,
industrial strength Molotov cocktails that
burn the nerve endings and incinerate
the consciousness, all filters brought
to ash. It asserts winter over every soul
present, it turns the water to black ice
and sends those traveling into a tailspin
debauched by necessity and desperation.
Twenty years after the mystic cast her spell,
the rotten fruits of spoiled trees have poisoned
the general populace, and the work of the angels
has multiplied greatly, but their energies catch
the radical intent, misappropriated or not, and
changes the feeling, the delivery of the meaning
cushioned more than cradled. They pull the
threads of consciousness, each strand lighting gold,
glowing with its growth. A tapestry the angels make,
their hands and fingers looms of energy, pulls the
mother from the quagmire; it washes away the filth,
dissolving the taint to fine particles of light. And the
strands belonging to their lost brothers and sisters
effervesce with knowledge and a deep seeded
understanding that bears the roots of many returns;
the strength and longevity of each root burrowed
into the soul of its mother, anoint her and make her
spirit light until the weight of depression and anxiety
have lifted and the burden of fear and apathy have
dispersed, and she floats before the face of god
and greets him kindly as she ascends
to the lofty palaces inspired by love.
“Fruit of the Barren” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.