She Cannot Watch

 

She cannot watch this world with it’s lack of concern. She cannot watch humans share stories of horror before they click the channel to another station. Satiation. Satiation. Bring the brain to another dimension. Escape the images. Babies dying. Children crying. Mother’s weeping. Father’s gone flat. This is the aftermath of a planet turned cold.

This is real chemical warfare, when the DNA sitting inside of the body no longer has a voice; when it has become robotic, static and unconcerned with the burdens carried by the most innocent of her species, the children. This earth is seeping and shaking in flight, preparing to sling forward, and so she draws her sword. She straps on metal boots to stay rooted in place. She slices through aggravation and loss. She beheads egotistical diatribe and places aside ignorance with intellectual rhymes.

Everything they hear goes in one echoed ear and through the rear of the skull where everything’s gone numb; where smart has become the new dumb, because the last book read was forced in high school and current events are spread from digital non-evidence.

Opinions carry more weight these days than facts. Belief has become an actual thing as if it is valid so the cabals tally up tithes to set aside for parties with children whose eyes have gone hopeless with the knowing that nobody’s listening to their silence scream. There is hope left still inside of her; that in the depths of the crying, they will know help is coming.

No one hears them because the masses are adhered to the harmonic tone of their own voices, bounced back onto them from their blinders, and they become so tightly bound inside of their illusions that their sensibilities drown.

She will ride high on invisible steeds with chariots of good deeds, boundary lines clearly defined and fight stalwart battles, until generations of trauma have been healed. One life at a time. No child left behind. One step. One wound bandaged,  then a chance to become accustomed to the scars left from being ravaged.

You sleepers and your habits have left the vulnerable tattered. So, she waits. She watches. She listens to the clock’s tick tock as time comes in waves. There’s a storm rising. Can you hear the quiet? When it explodes, everything you know will change, and you will never again be the same.

M7

Does Your Tribe Consist Of Warriors?

I am rising. So the people in my circle must be warriors. To be close to me one must contain and maintain the passion to fight for me just as I adhere myself close to you. I will go to battle to protect you.

My army is small, yet impenetrable. Everyone outside of it is a molecular extension. Loyalty is pertinent during these times. To be accepted into the most sacred of my innner space one must be ascended and vetted, mind, body and spirit.

I look around me. I am there. Each person inside of my life loves me loyally. Each person would say no, she is good, she is my friend, my mother, my sister and my daughter.

There is no dramaturgy playing violin strings or symphonies. All are at peace with being. Each who we are. Witch. Warlock. Children of the Stars. Daughters of the Moon. Sisters to the tree leaves. Shapeshifters. Love Givers. Moniceptors. Otherkin. Indigos. Crystals. We are at differing levels of growth actualization. We are varying age dimensions. We are a wise and skilled tribe.

There is a summer awaiting fingers debating word phrases as I disengage from the grid and go in. In the meantime, I hold you at distances. Not because I don’t love you. It is because I don’t trust you. “Who me?” If you’d like to apply it feel free. Trust is not given. It is earned. The world can burn tomorrow, and the hollow earth can explode. Wars can be waged and chemicals sprayed. Who will be there to hold you?

You will know, when at your worst you become your best. So observe the words returned, the lines unspoken, the invisible fences which rush electricity through your stomach without warning.

In these signs of the times who will be by your side? Only you decide.