The Human Condition with Susan Marie25 Apr 2016

buzz-saw

The buzz-saw grits and grinds, metal teeth rip skin, chewing and spitting parts of bones and marrow. Fumes spew smoke-trails for miles, so all can see my death, my demise. And no one seems to mind that each tear into flesh is pain, and that the dust is my blood, falling onto the grass, laying there, as if it is nothing. My cries are not heard by humans, my voice is muted, but the sound of the buzzing of the saw, the heat of the blade boiling in the sun, the sweat of the hands of the man, driving that blade deep into my very soul - The core of this Earth. Someone stop this - please, they are killing me, someone hear me cry. With each buzz of the blade, my eyes grow more dim, my breath is caught. My God - I am bleeding right into the roots of where I was born. The grass holds me dearly, - God bless the green - the dandelions tilt their weary heads and tears turn to puffs of cotton flowing on Spring-times breeze. And the hands that hold the blade have mercy on them, for they are but a vehicle. And a lone tear escapes from the eye of the hand of the man cutting my limbs to pieces, and it falls upon my shoulder now bare, once covered in bark. And my goodness, the tears are hidden beneath the cap of a hat, shielding the human eye from sun or perhaps, from the stares of onlookers - who may deem him mad for having a heart. *** This was inspired by the first line in this article and experience written by L.R. Heartsong [River] called "Saving the Grandmother" http://www.soulartistjournal.com/index.php/2016/04/24/saving-the-grandmother/ Photo © L.R. Heartsong Words © Susan Marie

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