Threaded

The world is rent open;
I would mend it.
And if I cannot, I will decorate the edges,
a fine tracery, veined to feed us.
We all of us need those wild places,
after all,
where our own brokenness may settle again into that strange song that is our self.
Let it arise in you,
and in each other.
Nurture the bramble and the flame which consumes it;
drink deep of battle cries and your own well spring. Can you feel it?
There is no path until you take it,
stitching the story into your skin,
one breath at a time.
Now speak.