Distant Reaches - The Veins of Stromgyre

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The Veins of Stromgyre

The Veins of Stromgyre
An artist’s rendering of Stromgyre the Whorled One.

A fragmentary transcription of the epic poem passed down through the generations

before Before
in the great sea of stars
was but one cosmic spore
big, bright, and full of scars.

In its gassy throes
the sun exploded to glorious death
planting infinite tomorrows
with its last breath.

From Nothing
celestial storms watered this seed
into Something
where life could proceed.

A sapling consciousness
began to thrive
a budding awareness
hungry, thirsty, and Alive.

A galaxy of roots grew
the First Tree:
Stromgyre the Great Yew
came to Be.
He spread within and without
the forever blueprint upon which we stand
began to branch out
sisters and brothers sprouted from the land.

Borne from cosmic wanderlust
the roots sought connection
built on a foundation of trust
with love the only natural selection.

Thus the forests evolved
from bark to brush
ways of being dissolved
into primordial mush.

Brush turned to scales then to fur
and fur became skin
Woman and Man sprung from a Fir
Stromgyre’s grandchildren.

Yea! humans were carved from wood
but unlike their parents, they bled more than sap
they felt misunderstood
an evolutionary stopgap.

Their lives mere instants
a freckle on the worn face of Time
a passing glance toward (…what, exactly?) existence
an infected paradigm.

Little more than a faint ring
traced in the heartwood
no songs to sing
missing selfhood.

Instead of love, their foundation was mortality
angry, impatient, and lonely
their lives a triviality
a mistake — family in name only.

They forgot stillness
they forgot their roots
obsessed with unfairness
unsatisfied with life’s many fruits.

They scoured the land for More
and found forged in Frozen Flame
an instrument of war
bound by shame.

Behold! Quatha’s poison axe
a treacherous gift
of parallax steel
only human hands could lift.

They turned this axe upon woodlands
reduced their home to splinters
revenge only expands
kindling for a world doomed to many winters.

They climbed every mountain
they damned every river
and drained every fountain
imprisoned all nary a shiver.

They built and built
always growing and lusting
and blood was spilt
always untrusting.

An ignored internal struggle
made external eternal war
impossible to juggle
an infected spore.

You know.
You have lived it
waiting for that deathblow
ready to submit.

But instead we can Remember
that one life is enough
listen to the whisper in our last ember
shed our slough —

and Return…
Go back!
We have much still to learn
in our yolk sac

where Stromgyre remains
where Stromgyre waits
to break our chains
to change our fates.

In the whorled center of this Earth
in the tiny, boundless hollow in all of us
there is rebirth
our deliverance can only be thus.

Face the last thunderclap —
follow the track:
In every palm lies a map
to a forest without lack.
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