Beltane, 2019

A wasteland of words saying nothing
Tension a live wire tracing paths of rage and despair
Echoed screams batter consciousness
Choking bile in a throat gone dry
We are soiled, sold our complicity feeding power
Sick quivering shame and lust and horror churn in hungering bellies
We pour tainted water on our wounds and call it healing

Do not cast stones of they and them, of powerlessness and politics
This is no slow grinding time or terror nor shattering descent 
It is immersion in our own dreams wrought 
You who speak of wakening as though you ever had the luxury of sleep
Gifting your children your conceit

There is no glorious battle here
Merely rutting in soil denuded of nourishment, iron rich from playing at sacrifice
There is no forgiveness here
No one who cares about your wherefores and pretended wisdoms
But there may yet be kindness here

Softening on a gasp, yielding to hope
Moments teeter, bound and verging, 
Burgeoning, each a living choice
Hands clawed, aching to rend, to grasp, to sow
Settle here and listen, living your way into hard eyed clarity
Your tongue will teach the taste of it, your very skin a map to truth

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