Tortured souls of an unhappy communion, as you lay out your daily bread, the ritual cycles of a breathing breathe brings you no fullness, exhaling in a rasp, a ever collapsing lung wondering when death will come. As if we simply forgot, or somebody stole that precious fire, smoke trying to escape the smelting room of the ruined hearts. Why must we taste the bitter bile, we are the smudge sticks of someone else’s making, bound tight and burned, the ritual parlance of a menial existence, but what if, it was of our own oversight. Accepting an apology from a distant notion. That day that they told you what it was, what was meant to be, that moment you crawled into their shell, ever hanging under Deadman’s Tree. The World is not a place to bleed, the stagnate Hexagram of Ku marked across your sweat and brow, we are bleeding all over. The thinning wind blows low against the skirt of the Mountain, in an image of decay, thus the embodied and the emboldened must rise to stir the heavy winds, that lay fallow in the killing fields, to strengthen the people and quicken the spirit. Crossing back over obsidian seas, to begin the work.
“Decisiveness and energy must take the place of inertia and
indifference that have led to decay, in order that the ending may be followed by a new beginning”.
-Richard Wilhelm, Hexagram 18
Image by: Unknown
The end of the poem was inspired by: The IChing Hexagram 18, Richard Wilhelm translation.