They speak of Astraea
and tell us to pursue that noble symbol of the ingenue
There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.
-I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
My feet wandered through forests
made of night
in light of brightest day
down paths well-trodden
by men of higher caliber
of ages long since passed.
Their stories writ on
pages yellowed and coffee stained
by one too many student
skimming over words that
have been deemed of some importance
by teachers who’ve long since forgot
the drudgery of sloughing through texts
while mind wanders to screens that glow
with mind numbing light.
They speak of Astraea and tell us to pursue
that noble symbol of the ingenue.
The forest’s edge was still out of sight
and the shadow seemed to dance
telling stories of all the things
their ancient eyes had witnessed.
Minister Dimmesdale with scarlet letter
growing in his breast
lips to tightly sealed
to speak of sins
and find the key
of freedom from his guilt
so conscious imprisoned
and drugged with regret
life drips though trembling hands
till empty corpse pierced with remorse
lays abandoned on scaffold
for all to behold.
The forest’s edge grew nearer
and the shadows tightened their hold
their rising voices chanting
about all the havoc
the secrets they held had reeked.
Doctor Frankenstein with fear
and disgust fettering down
admittance of gruesome deed
of beast sewn with necromancy
who wanders through the land
chased and shunned
till to vengeance turn
and kills without remorse
and leaves Frankenstein bereft
seeking rectification
that remains unfulfilled
as creator, sins admitted,
in death becomes symbol
of effects of unadmitted guilt.
They speak of Astraea and tell us to pursue
that noble symbol of the ingenue.
The day shone with autumnal light
sun filtered through amber spyglass
and wind sharp enough pierce skin
and settle curled around a person
passing cool fingers through hair
and stealing warmth with the crisp laughter of leaves
that flit about
unable to decide where to land
before finally settling
only for the wind to sweep them away again
to gather them in drifts
to be left to be trod upon
and rot.
They speak of Astraea and tell us to pursue
that noble symbol of the ingenue.
At last the forest’s edge I reached
tendrils of shadow curling around me
refusing to leave
and the forest whispered out
parting words
guilt unadmitted that
weakens body
guilt unadmitted that
leads to greater sin.
Yet this thing inside me churns
a beast that must be suppressed
lest he flee
and leap from my mouth
in admittance of guilt
that will shackle
not only I
to this great sin
but also my friend-
conspirator of the plot.
My hands with dirt are stained
and will never be cleansed
from under nails
for guilt has dug
itself out from grave
and burrowed into
my every thought and action.
