And if they asked;
What does success mean to you?
I would say;
Communion,
The demons and the deities.
Anything less is to deny our proprium

Paint:
me in tar, dredged from your judas soul
Where you once stored my love:
a devotion-less hole

Truth:
A shame-bound train and you’re tied to its track
Hypocrisy:
A thrown boomerang always finds its way back

Pray:
with your queen in your false praise of god
Bury:
your guilt in her sanctimonious nod

“How loud must it scream
Before I will hear?”
Craft your hollow platitudes
Into your pious veneer

See,
I know

the putrid self-loathing
That screams from within
How loud must it scream
For you to accept your chagrin?

We are so many things non-expressively.
We hold our most precious truths in our hearts,
knowing that a witnessing makes them no more real.
In not demanding their performance, lies veneration.
This silence.
This solitude.
This conservation.
This honour.
This unity between self and the hearts significance… a maturing, a deepening of reverence, of self knowing and being.

Following the white rabbit of curiosity
down every burrow of interest
Curating a collection of experiences
Collating a winter of fulfilment,
with no passion unexplored
A life experimenter.

If I stay a nervous bud
my full bloom will not encroach upon the grandeur of another
& I will invite no retribution
Though the artist in me knows
that a whole field in bloom
Pollinates the world.
Bloom with the artists.

If I stay silent
my words cannot be smithed into a weapon of censure,
and be used to cut me into smaller pieces.
Though the poet takes my words
& alchemises them
into an elixir for healing.
Speak with the poets.

If I smother my fire
I inspire no ire from neighbouring Suns
for whom my shine is a punishable theft of thunder.
Though a sister moon mirrors my light and illuminates the next.
Shine regardless.

If I stay in my armour
my vulnerability cannot become the missile launched at me
by the traitor who begged for my truth
Though an ally reveres my courage
and meets it with the honour of their own open heart.
Open, even though.

The wild woman, she is cyclical.
The wild woman, she is seasonal.
The wild woman, she is tidal.
The wild woman honours her seasons of being.
She rests in both body and mind when her bones and spirit command it.
The wild woman yields to the gift of her own emotional wisdom.
She is as mutable and unpredictable as a tropical storm
The wild woman is both hibernating bear and flitting hummingbird.
She is springs flush and she is volcanic eruptions.
She is the crones wisdom after the maidens mistakes
She is all the stories of all the ancestors stored in the library of her bones.
Through her they will be heard
.

Begging by a million names,
A fix for the cost of dignity

In the wearing of a thousand faces,
True north gets lost by tide

To be oneself requires discernment
Through madness and through mood

A staying of course beyond the currents
That pull us to and fro.