birth breaks the coffin
Most of my lovers have been delivered a warm side of death. Maybe they are drawn to my familiar feeling of forever reeling the line of grief and relief, dying inside each moment I breathe. Upon the death of each breath, birth breaks the coffin from before, blooming fresh life into the fore. Or maybe I am determined to crawl inside my lover’s nest and sing into the dark wake of death. Joy grows from the dirt of a buried mess, dancing shyly in a demon’s dress.
a sparing soak
I drain a grey tub full of love, once a trio of lines practicing patience up my spine. A corset of colors melted with soil, in a soak not made to strip, in a bath not made to boil. So I spare spots of my skin from the eagerness of soaps, knowing the lesson of this mess needs time to be shown.
Love & Form
When love is rooted in form, possession permeates relationships. When love is drawn from the boundless energetic oneness that is found outside of form, the body is positioned as a secondary aspect in love — only a means of expression of the love that exists before, after, and beyond the forms through which it is shared. Possessiveness over form no longer serves as a core aspect of the union, as it is clear that the form is not the subject of love, only a vehicle to celebrate the mutual connection to the infinite energy that is love.
Triumphant and alone
Do not fear death
Do not fear death. All form lives until the moment it becomes misaligned with the consciousness by which it is inhabited, at which point, life is breathed into the newly aligned shape of now. The only departure mortality takes from immortality is the inevitable change of form.
on your own
start listening baby
Sailing from sage to sage in a simple state, caught by the gaze of the Crone Appaloosa, surrounded by nothing at the mouth of an open gate. She stood fifty fence posts from my feet, preaching an answer with her eyes to a question that had only brought me heat. I slowly stepped closer, seeking a promise that I had previously come to release.
We were still, in the single moments, and becoming closer as each one added to the pile of time. On my way, I forgot the why of where I was. Only fenceposts. Forty fence posts, then twenty seven when the ceaseless shepherd sent a song of nips to her heels, pushing her into the far pasture, leaving me alone with a soft answer from her eyes.
Forest to fire
Nothing that exists is by itself
The moon was as fertile as I had ever seen her. She smiled quietly down into the dark open. She called on us to move, to let the possession of her light guide our bodies in the wooded night. The edgeless forms of women around me drifted in a river of movement and the space within their bodies motionlessly melded to the moment. Their stillness grew branches and explored past their bodies.
I went to worship the moon and came to wonder if the moon was worshiping the women. I returned and let my words wash away. Time came and dissolved until the light of the sky silenced the light of the moon. Nothing that exists is by itself.
untitled and unfinished