To the colour brown,
And to think we're all bloodied by the same violence we've inflicted on others. How ultimately the bleeding is the same as the bloody on our hands and we're all sinned to a sense of extinction of the soul. I will have to cry- cry- and cry over and over again for only the salt of soul will hurt my wounds now and perhaps- just perhaps wash away these carved browned bloodstains upon my skin.
I ask myself of the colour brown. The least symbolic of all of nature's colours. And why is that I wonder. Why do we dare not look down upon our Mother- down to the earth and dig our brains for answers. I think because all we see down there are all our sins and wounds. The soil awash with our browned blood stares back from the other side of death. How the only time we're clean is after we're ashes and dust- and all that blood just returns to earth. Home and hurt.
Make no mistake- all of life is merely a continuing ritual of atonement through gratefulness. And for that I thank you- for everything. For all the hurt and home you've given me.