How deep does adoration run?

When is something fully selfless?

If the blade had pierced an inch to the side,

If the metal had torn through blood as much as fat,

Would the deed have been done?

If the precious life had spilled like ichor,

If the slitting had ended in death,

Would she have gone through,

The way the blade went through her flesh?

How selfless is selfless, really,

When it comes at little cost,

To anyone other than the others?



When is such harm justified?

What else to we see, and let slip?

How often to we twist and turn the words in our mouths,

Spin them around in our minds until they make sense to us?

How often to we change the core of a phrase,

Puff ourselves up with false knowledge and say that no,

I was in the right all along?

How often are we ourselves Orual,

Shunning the Gods for mistakes we’ve made ourselves?

How often to we like to think we’re Psyche,

Calm and fearless in the face of prosecution?

How often are we, ourselves, the prosecutors?

And when do we let it end?

How many times have we been no more than the Fox,

Scorning those who believe in what we call fairy tales,

Modern magic to which we love to turn up our noses?

How long does an act last, I wonder,

Before it becomes as real as the skin we wear on our bones?

How much of our reality becomes shrivelled,

Hiding in our veins the way Orual hid behind the Queen?

How many times, I ask,

Is that truly safer than the alternative?

How many of us hide behind shallow veils,

Dig the old selves barren graves?

How much of our life is no longer real?

How long will it last?



And think, for a moment,

Of the truth you may believe in?

How often does it shine like the oil lamp,

How often are we revealed and punish?

How often to we destroy when seen?

How many times, do you think,

We spend setting up impassable trials,

To keep ourselves hidden?

How many people, do you think,

Have truly past those courses?

Who do you actually know?

And who, reader, truly knows you?

How much of ourselves is a veil?

Do we even know who we are?

For years they grew,
Unharmed, pure.
A forest of pristine, perfect trees.
Until I turned on them,
Scrutinizing and fearful.
I cut them down,
Chopped off branches
And ripped them from the dirt
Because they weren't good enough for me.
I rejected the sun
Because I couldn't see the light.
I denied the saplings room to grow,
Afraid of being okay again.
And let the parasites of doubt and fear and worthlessness to grow bigger,
To take hold instead.
I severed the ties of root systems,
Leaving myself on my own,
Solitary.
I refused them rain and fresh soil,
And carved lines in their bark instead.
But even as my forest withered,
And I longed to destroy everything left,
As the sky grew darker and the air colder,
I realized that even through the darkest nights
Stars will shine.
So I made constellations in my head.
I let the roots grow back
And made new connections.
I let the bark heal and replenish the soil.
I help new saplings grow, and nurture the ones that hid,
Safe but invisible as disease raged on.
I work on killing my demons, the parasites that still try to haunt me.
But I am stronger now.
So I let the sun rise
Over the healing landscape of my mind

Time is a River

Time is a river,
It ages, rages
Racing and chasing
Changing, remaining
When everything else disappears.

Time is a river,
It flows, it knows
Exactly where the hidden hide
It finds and guides
Lost souls it
Found me.

Time is a river
It heals it reveals
The hurt the worst
Of the demons and heeds
No one, no plan
Every span of life
It sees it feels
It waits for no one, no plan.

Time is a river
It runs or it races
Do we fight it or
Does it fight us?
For control or for love
Through the sand through the mud
Through the minds
Of the weak of the strong
It critiques, never wrong.

Time is a river
Forever and never
Does it stop?
It may slow down or run faster
Though every disaster
Celebrations, devastations
Heartache and joy
But it always runs.
Time is a river.