In the spanse of sunshine by the bloodied bubbling brook, light cascades and shimmers from the surface of inner-reflections--the blood isn’t a scene of horror but of life and passion-spent--and sunshine encompasses hope and beauty. This liquid pours from the very heart of the mountain, winter-cold, driven by gravity and longing too deep to for words, a primordial need to belong and love and go deeper, into the very heart of the earth and each other, until all that is left is the heat of magma-fury and flutter of pulsing hearts dancing in twin-songs.

I am not there yet. I was there amidst the forgotten runes carved into Gaia’s bedrock heart of soul, yet I haven’t forgotten how close I felt to the connectedness and sacredness of all things: passion; freedom and liberty; the ferocity of faith, believing in another until it hurt; and crying at each separation. I remember leaving this place, climbing the stony path upwards, a type of ascension into the clouds, until I arrived at this bubbling brook of winter-cold.

I long to go back, to trace the path downward with my fingertips, but there was more than joyous union down below in the depths of my heart where the magma-waters flow; there was pain and scorching agony such as I’ve never felt before. That is why I don’t go back; that is why I merely consider the path downward into the depths of my soul… of your soul.

That is why I embrace the loneliness of this winter-cold brook, and smile upon the blood-red passion of lust that once carried me to you. That is why I die inside, slowly, like the fading Autumn leaves falling, cluttering as brown and crispy things of days gone by.

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