The Deepest Parts

The others return after a long absence

to char meat; smoke chases 

me into my room and

I dream an infestation

tiny red ants

swarming into crevices

at the edge of sight.

And the return of black

seeking oblivion, certain

the termination of life

my life

the only possible path.

Even though I know


that, first, death is not the end;

my ancestors chatter at me constantly

as we swim the vital river

and second, what is overwhelming

my senses is

not mine.

Grace flowing yesterday and

today I must be on my guard

again, no longer breathing in

ringing harmonics of om

while feeling into the music

of trees rooting beneath me.

Instead the crash

from the depths of the forest-




in a greedy profit grab.

What do we think

we are doing?


a shoot emerges from the stump,

as our human bodies turn

into compost for new trees.

The functioning whole teaches



— a plastic rootless

illusion  —

will not survive

the flood of life.

Inspired by: Oblivion, Termination, Flood, Plastic and Crash.

Published by

Victoria Stuart

I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

One thought on “The Deepest Parts”

  1. Wow. That’s a pretty tangled up root system. Frankly I kind of like the idea of being part of what goes into making a tree live for might as well be forever compared to the average human life expectancy. Imagine the opportunity to come and water that which you helped give life to.. Amazing isn’t it?


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