loneliness creeps in at the edges of spoken words.
One by one they fall away to answer another call.
You begin to fall
into that hole that is so big
from a lifetime of digging.
At first, you claw at the edges, your
hands where your feet were
from what seemed like just a moment before.
And then your hands hurt, and your voice is
raw from screaming for help and
nobody is coming to save you.
And so you let go.
And then you begin to occupy more of yourself,
from the momentum of loss,
filled to the edges instead of
a conglomerate mess.
And suddenly a knife appears,
clenched in your fist,
tattooed on the skin
between your shoulder blades.
A warrior is born.
And you know that
you have been here before.
And each time you have, you forgot to
fill that gaping hole with dirt.
That those seeds you threw in
when you were sitting pretty
indoors, are pretty much useless
without fertile soil.
We forget that we do not always need
a spiritual practice, but when we do need it,
we will have wished we had been practicing.
A warrior does not fear another,
she does not fear death.
She is fearless.
And when she knows,
she walks upright and
I don’t need anybody.
And a smile and compliment from
an angelic being, or a pretty young girl
I like your hair
might be the best thing that she has ever heard.
We are all of us starstuff that orbit a
gaping black hole,
a vortex of destruction,
waiting to rip us to pieces.
Only we are microcosms,
unto our selves~ destructive.
by the femme fatale,
the cosmic maiden
demanding our demise,
throwing ourselves into the cauldron of creation,
to be ripped apart and
put together again.
Humpty Dumpty could not do it.
Is it still possible for me?
Can I ride her magic fires?
And we hope…
maybe this will be the last time,
maybe we will remember that we are warriors,
maybe the hole can be filled in,
maybe something can grow there.