a cup of sweet licorice.

i come home to a solitary cup of tea, my mothers garden that had been destroyed, rumors in my mind of all seeds that need to be tended. i drank and tried to write, but sometimes the bitter loneliness is enough. i enjoy the calm. no question of presence or pretense, for i am only with myself. i enjoy the warm heat my body gives out when it tends it's own garden. i feel like soil, the heavy wet smell of dirt and minerals from a dead sea. there is only death here, the flowers that have been ravaged, purple blood mouths, their fallen pedals wounded, my mothers heart sinking below ground, the echoes belt louder, my heart lives under that ground. the sea-goddess will tend our black seeds, sew our mistaken love, bring to us the gifts from the ebbing moon waters. i will speak their tongues, a gift no one bears, of the silver icey ash that liquid volcanoes burst into air.
how my mind falters, on the edge, it remembers mountains and slips off them. how time condones such trepidations. my friends all live along the sea, we are farther and farther away from the crossing ocean, and my love ran away with the moon. how to we bear such longing, the garden that got taken back into the earth, the moon that slipped into the black sea, the dead earth trotting on spent love.
i'll keep in my imagination the smell of red amber, burnt rust, the milky blue waters that sea and earth form. red poison dripping from the oak tree, my heart does not respond, i am mute, awaiting the ether to settle me.