Parys Mountain in Anglesey, Wales. The remains of a mountain whose innards contained minerals and metals mankind wanted. Her inner beauty lies exposed to the elements.
Overly romantic? Yeah, I know! What can I tell you…I’m a poet!
She stood, proud against the sea blown gales, her heart forged in the melting pot of a chaotic planet.
The Mountain.
She held secrets, secrets given to her as the world was formed around her.
Secrets which rose her head high above the land.
Secrets she held inside throughout time, holding them close, guarding them as a mother swaddling her firstborn.
Until they came!
Until a man dug into her skin and, in that first cut, exposed her riches, her beauty, her secret.
She proudly proclaimed "See my wondrous colours! Marvel at my body!"
Oh they saw!
Then they came...
They came in their hundreds. Swarming! Smashing! Destroying!
Taking her apart, rock by coloured rock,
Digging, boring, scraping, taking - taking - taking.
Even as she died, her arteries were alive with the industry of her murderers.
Her veins throbbing as they dug and carried her away,
Until only a great chasm remained where her heart had been,
And she was drawn and quartered for the crime of containing what men wanted.
Then sated, they left.
And she died again - for they took their beating hearts along with hers.
They took their lifeblood along with hers
And left her with nothing bar scars,
For on her exposed belly, little would grow, little could live.
They left her with nothing save the secret which had killed her,
The beauty a macabre autumnal shroud - her colours shouting their agony in silence,
Screaming their anger voicelessly in the wind.
Yet justice will not be hers,
For she is no more.
