Magenta Tree

Oozing glowing red water rolls over the edge of the mountain, like lava after an eruption.

A fading tight slipping grip writes the story of a fight for glory, whips, tips and poker chips, chip dip and sippin’ drinks.

Parties and crimes.

The water circles a singular tree, stretched out from the side of the mountain. Magenta leaves, present the tease of peaceful ease and restful deeds.

A rope around its trunk.

The skies hue is largely affected by the sunset. Upset and decomposed at the notion of forced commotion and dosed devotion. Enclosed in the moment, sweat, dripping from a forehead on to the loosening grip. Regret, that the only threat is nature. Its set in stone, when there is failure to be left alone, to survive it will protect its home.

Pleads to be let go. The last strands in the rope will give and feed gravity a soul.

A plea to be let go.

A plea to be let go.

Tears, sorrows and apologies. A bar joke and I love you.

The memory is erased while it fades beneath violet clouds, hazy eyes and a cry in furious anger. Banished fear, it’s time to leave.

The noble sacrifice in the name of survival. A reasonable slice of hell. Shame and a reminder by that fucking magenta tree.

The beautiful misery in a vista, scenery with natural wonders to haunt and persist a dark time.


By Amber Black