The Vine

He pulls the strings, tossing her broken bones around like a puppet. Violently this way and that, jerking her empty shell up and down, back and forth.

Inside this lonely cage there is a tiny, shining hope still. A spurt of red, an ember where once was her heart. It once pumped her full of life with a vivid beat. It glowed red with passion, reaching outward. Now how can she protect this tiny, deficient seed? It once was a strong and healthy root, wild, youthful, vine of the Psyche that grew tall, in green juicy leaves, spurting out around her. They protected her, they cloaked her, hugging her feminine curves, pouring out of her chest, reaching down toward the earth and up to the sun. They gave her coolness and shade from the harsh elements. They wrapped around her, a beautiful gown, caressing her. Each one holding the promise of freshness, newness, excitement, birth and growth. Built to be flexible yet strong, so strong, strong enough to house the wild nature, her vitality. Strong enough to endure the pains of growing and birthing new life of all kinds.

Yet, it was not strong enough to withstand the destruction of his negative force. The constant tugging at the roots, dismemberment of limbs, the cutting of the leaves and flowers. Not strong enough to withstand the steady putrid poison he fed into the water year after year. And so the vine shriveled, hungry and thirsty, squelched by the heat. Lonely for the wild life that once took refuge here. All that was left was the prickly, brown tiny arms that clung to her side desperately, in great sorrow, until one day they crumbled into bits of dust.

All that remains are the bones, the dry, brittle bones, tied up to the puppet strings. Being forced to jump and dance endlessly. The marrow drains day by day. But there, in the chest cavity, barely protected is the tiny pumping seed. She must hang onto it with any strength she has left. In the hopes that when the storm passes there will be an ember left on the fire, that can be nurtured and fed to once again become a blazing fire of passion. A cracked, helpless seed to be embraced, and watered to once again become a great and beautiful vine. Would it be able to navigate over the new terrain of her life? Would it be able to stretch over her swollen, motherly body? Twisting over her bulging curves, surrounding her again with oxygen to breath, with a place to rest and to create? Would the birds once again be able to build their nests on the strong reaching branches? She wondered...