Trudging, albeit trepidatiously, deep into the belly of another forbidden beast, with only your fresh and fevered footsteps as my guide.
But, as always, throbbing heart in hand, I jump into the cleansing fires of banality banishment; eyes on fingertips, wide open and searching.
My legs shake, feet unsteady, drained of old life force by my red-assed Goddess, with bleeding teeth and a dark case of coffin burn. You sweetly pointed at the fresh grave of our mother in the furthest corner of the cave.
Saturnal Sunwheel, with fresh hibiscus and a smile on her headstone. The tears began to slowly spill.
"Your blood is only as sacred as those who feed on it," you reminded me. "You aren't obliged to love someone just because they have chosen to value you."
The stars start to sing a low, ancient moaning song and begin to bleed into the black velvet curtains of space.
It's raining salty hibiscus red blood from the heavens and we open our mouths to drink of it.
Professing myself to be wise, I look ever more the fool.
Stained with the wet, sacred insides of the spilling stars, I saw through the mirror and lost all remaining faith in your apocalypse and smirked at your transcendent telemarketing scheme.
The Earth is a cemetery. We are graves with pussies, legs and cocks.
Your sacred symbols are death totems you no longer know how to decipher.
Your uniforms are burial shrouds you no longer know how to stitch and weave.
I taste your sweet, stinging, nervous sweat.
Acheron, the river of woe, is overflowing and your feet will forever be wet with it.
And now, you can walk anew.
Spreading and weaving and sewing and seeing; spewing pieces of ourselves into the web of reality, singing out of true names, of faceless and fearless love.
Eternally now - it is the moment of our gracious abandon and greatest sacrifice.
The moment of creation.
The moment of rebirth.
The moment you became.
The moment you remembered.
