The Rock that Blows

a jack stallings' original poem about the beauty in letting go

In my youth, there was this tale
echoing from the Blue Ridge—
of love fierce as fire
between a Cherokee Brave and a Chickasaw Squaw.

As years spun by, those cliffs whispered still,
like little league dreams—
bolts of lightning,
crashing horizons, shaken with fear, and the thrill of violence—

a live wire with reckless abandon,
running high on the gas of new dreams,
against dark crimson skies, colliding.

Rocky and Cinderella, in a world of desperate odds,
sacrificing themselves to gods and magicians—
preachers and politicians,
shaping the destiny of the damned,
promising provision to the poor.

Unwilling to see—we all hang alone in this world—
without breath to beg pardon
from the ‘almighty simp’ who sleeps,
as vultures circle.

Until warm air wanders
through weary minds grasping at madness,
maniacally laughing, with heartbeat stuttering—
racing, speeding—
then slowing, gasping,
choking—

releasing.
Earth approaching—embracing nothing.

As certain as the breeze, it’s true,
we all hold loosely all that we love.

As she speaks sternly,

like an ancient sage whispering—
through the warm tears of death,
ripping soul from flesh,
like old wounds worn from torn branches.

She forces me to embrace the abyss,
where I find rest,
in the wings of her limit,
becoming one with her spirit,

and echoing the final cry
from bold souls who have dared
to soar into open skies—
and finally taste the depths of shalom.