Pray tell sheep messenger

what sad and slippery pin pricks

lay in wait underneath my underworld shower cap?

can, do you not, to tell, tale by tales length parting?


be missed, yet seeds automatically planting

timing perfect, within cycling seasonal coordination.

facts mingled with fairy tales

and misconstrued magistrates responding with nods and giggles.

I’ve no bones for killing

every time their black and bright red specked bodies smash

beneath my death wielding device

I shed a tear inside

Every time, I look to creator & tremble asking forgiveness,

knowing, in the act of asking, it is given.

always inner eyes be not blind to cultures howling wolves,

giving space, hollowing out holes,

in which new paradigm may burrow

to sprout anew and push forth once more

that which must present herself as truth

and truth she’s is and speaks.

Standing in the middle of your pulsing heart,

wearing her shimmering brilliant white wedding gown,

which spills out bravely in all directions.

In my dreams, I take up residence

in black widows body,

I am smashed a million times, by a million frightened humans.

but upon the instant of my death

I awaken in the soft and silken web

of my mothers making,

seeing the eyes of my brothers

and sisters, yearning for the taste of my first kill.

There is no satisfaction in ti,

it is what i must do, who i am,

there is no sorrow in my death.

She sitting in hearts central chamber,

pleading with me, asking for my eyes to sparkle

with the special light, where her body

touches the sun.

to tattoo her transformational hymns on the walls

of each and every blood vessel within my being,

that i might spill out, even minutely, a trickle of the majesty

of what she creates within.

There should be no sorrow in it.

is it not what i am?

and yet,

as i go to close my journal, there on the edge of page, crawling is tiniest red spider

i pause, not wanting to crush.

and so the book stays open, now unslinging

battle axe of divine inner mistress once more

my pen attacks and scratches parchment,

as on papyrus, as on wood, as on stone,

in days long past, the same quest calling,

how to articulate this love giving energy

that douses through me, into forms, words,

that might be heard, felt, recognized

and made law within the hearts of all who

wear this human skin.

how to plant kisses within each heart

who’s seeds might grow into beautiful

unconditionally loving smiles

on the lips of each soul sister and brother.

a dream worth living for, worth dying for,

so she whispers, as I awaken again

wrapped in the etheric white feathers

of her eternally expanding tantric temple.

blessed with the burden of her living grace.