rehemasburner

[rehemasburner]

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[rehemasburner]

if I knew I'd tell you

We've been stumbling through the woods,

shins scraped and arms scratched,

sweat and small streams of blood running together,

and now some tears, too, as

fatigue washes over our minds

as well as our bodies.

It's been years now,

years and years.

My mouth is dry and

my thoughts are sparse,

which doesn't matter because I am

too exhausted to speak.

Finally my legs give out and

I sit down on a tree root,

and you join me.

After a long silence spent

breathing heavily and

staring into the endless thicket,

you ask,

Where do we go from here?

And all I can say is,

If I knew I'd tell you.

[rehemasburner]

untitled (the sun)

The sun touches everything but me

the wildflowers speckling the grass

on the side of the road

the trees on the hills ahead, making the

contours of the horizon lush, dense, verdant

the power lines sewn into the land and

woven through the forest

the sky, blue like an untouched lagoon

clouds that drift contentedly

with the breeze

all that meets the eye is an

idyllic saturation of colors.

inside, I am grey, wilting, empty.

The sun touches everything but me

[rehemasburner]

weeds

So many grow, so often and so quickly that

I can barely recognize my garden

Without them

There isn’t much use in trying to,

Though,

They always reappear.

I could accept them if they

Didn’t divert resources from the

Flowers I do tend to

But they dominate, they proliferate, and

The flowers I love and care for

Wilt, and die.

All I can do sometimes

Is sit in my garden, resigned, with

Hands full of weeds that I have pulled,

Trying to catch my breath

As new weeds grow, and

Grow, and grow.

[rehemasburner]

the picture of contentment

The couple sat in plush seats with their feet close together by the fire, both staring into the gently dancing flames with contented smiles resting lightly on their faces, minds wandering. It was frigid outside, and the window panes had frost and ice that made the windows slightly translucent. It was almost as if they existed in a snow globe. The man’s mind had been wandering around long enough that it had idly found its way back to the person he thought of when he saw fire crackle, or bubbles float away and pop, or lightning soundlessly flash in the clouds. He knew her years ago, before he knew his wife. She reminded him of those moments in nature because she was one of them, here and gone simultaneously, instant and imposing to those who chose to watch and hope to see it happen. He always wondered what became of her, if she ever struck again in his vicinity and he just didn’t notice. But he doubted it. It was a thought he hesitated to explore entirely, and instead he shuffled under his blanket, slouching a little bit, and nodded off. His wife looked up and smiled at him, the picture of contentment.

Not two miles away, visible through the window on a day unobstructed by ice, was a graveyard. She had died four years before the couple moved in, and her family had all gradually migrated from the area. A headstone not even visible under the snow and sleet, her memory had, over time, become reduced to briefly flickering with the fire in the house of a man she considered her great love, who had kept on living his life.

[rehemasburner]

out to sea

I’ve been drifting out to sea

for a little while now

All I had to do to stay near land

was hold onto this rope

But even that was too much

Oh well

Now I think I’m okay

as long as I can see land

But looking around now

I can’t even really see anything

except water and sky

Oh well

[rehemasburner]

the statue

On a busy street in a bustling city is a statue of a girl sitting with her head in her knees, curled into a position that obscures her face and shelters her from the outside world. The statue has been there for as long as most people can remember, although it arrived rather unceremoniously, as nobody can remember the likeness of the girl being announced. Still, the statue became a tourist attraction, especially when moss and vines started to grow around the girl, further emphasizing the “tragic beauty,” as many called it, of an eternally small girl burying her head in her knees. Several times in the years since the statue arrived, it made local headlines for “crying,” temporarily attracting throngs of religious fundamentalists and curious observers. It was inexplicable; not even local priests or scientists could explain why the statue seemed to weep at random moments, for random durations of time.

What nobody knew–or at least, remembered–is that one night, at around 3:30 AM, years and years ago, a little girl, exhausted from crying and unable to justify to herself stumbling another step forward, leaned against a brick wall. Her legs quickly gave out, and as she crumpled to the ground she put her head in between her knees. I’ll get up soon, she thought, I just need to regather my strength. And so her rest began and never ended, with any attempts to motivate herself to rise and resume her journey thwarted by the passive gestures of nature; the ivy and moss and weeds were reassuring her that she was safer, happier in her spot on the sidewalk. She could think, and cry, and think, and cry, all in peace.

One day, though, it seemed as if the sun was brighter, the birds were chirping in melodies, and the breeze carried the smells of clean laundry and coffee from the nearby neighborhood. The girl declared to herself that the day had finally come to resume her travels. So, she pushed against the blanket of ivy that had formed on her, and felt pain shoot through her atrophied muscles and stiffened joints as the ivy barely budged. Again, she pushed, again, she felt so much pain that she let out a hoarse yelp. However, the strength was gone from her voice, too. She was noiseless and powerless, and nobody cared, because nobody knew, she realized, as a new puddle began to form around her feet.