Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion

Ancient Winter

1 Comment

wisdom

There’s a place inside of me, so ancient, so old.

Determined in her non-determination.

Agile in her fragility.

Broken in the places twice repaired.

Again, she deems herself worthy, and the gods pour down her sacrifice.

Some golden maiden lost in the ages of time. Lost onto herself in the blizzard of story unlocked, untold, and drifting in the land of unreachable.

To touch her is to dream and to dream to be with her, in this open space of nowhere.

I can see her, in the window to the opening of self, through the ancient scrolls of yesteryears.

I can see her drifting by from side to side.

Her transparency the truth.

Her echoes the star-seed set out long before her eyes began.

I am to her the river, flowing and moving.

Uninterrupted.

My everything exact.

My every part perfection.

To her there exists no concept of failure.

No word for incomplete.

No word beyond the muttering of the winter wind.

She is the snow woman, gathering the flakes as innocent beneath the magic.

Mouth upon the rigid ever coming cold, swallowing in delight what transpires from above.

She is the maiden pouring her forgiveness out into the soil rich, splendid in her own making, molding her being between her hands, dripping the love-lips of pleasure—kisses to the earth, her home.

She floats in a manner that seeks not to serve or surrender.

Only to be.

As the wave upon the waters she travels, a part of existence released again with each breaking.

Had she but a wish, if thought arose, her dreams would be of me.

To hold me in her diligent joy and whisper the sound of air.

Silence blown through me, tucked beneath me, as the dissolving blanket transformed into sheltering grace.

Eternal is her essence.

Eternal is she made.

Some lady of the night, seized from the day, and taken into the chamber of this self.

Locked away, she is.

A willing captive capsized within my being.

Living as the shadow of my calling.

I come to her in the midnight hour.

Reeking of pain.

The sorrow as belt around my neck.

Jaguar intermingled with boa—squeezing softness biting at my flesh.

The comfort comes then, in subtle surprise.

Burrowing into me as the sunburn of summer season.

Scorching with the nurturing rays.

Swallowing me in suffocating pleasure.

The external light submerging.

The remembrance reborn.

To be made as her.

One in her all.

My tainted longings scooped up and divided, sorted into her basket of merriment.

Laugh, she carries on, laugh, her body speaks. Holding me, her open babe—her story found.

One thought on “Ancient Winter

  1. …I like her…

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