The world outside the forest grew quiet,
inside, nature’s orchestra began its symphony,
our voices became violins, the deteriorating oak our conductor.
Between a bottle of Red Cat and a pack of Seneca’s,
we let the sour moon strum our vocal cords.
Jeb philosophized on his bark stool,
“I wonder, if we were always this messed up
Like, have we just become more aware, or were things just better when we were
His lips took a deep dive into the holy water of red.
I sat across consumed in smoke,
“I think it’s in our blood.
And the moment reality cuts us open, we can never stop the bleeding.”
I coughed and touched my arm, feeling my scars ooze.
“These trees were once our safety.”
Glass words exchanged in an open sky
“Reality can cut down a whole forest.”
“A whole ecosystem.”
“Maybe, someday, a planet.”
We sat and bathed under the Strawberry Moon.
It slowly caved with age, a rotten harvest.
I tried to stuff the stars into my eyes, but,
“something’s, you can never unsee.”
So, I loosely held the dead star between my fingers.
Jeb held the bitter taste of red on his tongue,
“and never forget.”“our shelter.”
The last gulp, the last drag.
The last sting of a string sighed,
Marigold lives in the enchanted mountains of Western New York. She writes poetry, plays music, hikes, and does tarot readings. The artist participates in open mic nights and shares her work on Instagram. She previously published her poem “When I Hear the Name Andy,” in Awakenings Issue 9: Erasure.