Out Scry

I crave intimacy;
I have all my life.
I need no wet reflection,
no mirrored enlightenment
to light up my room,
my den of dark memory,
illuminating the path.

 

For decades,
I’d either submit to
trained enslavement
or I apathetically slept
my life away. I got used
to the shackles,
jewelry to remind me
of how to be…
behave.

 

Tomes archived
within my heart
bringing on thoughts
thoughtful, logical
introspection
by way of a flood of my
tears upon the sanded
glass to mirror me
and a past life or 2.

 

Old souls and aged
ancient earth beings
begin to raise questions
concerning their own
intimate mortality.
We want to know
why we forgot how
to  be…
believe.

 

It’s an outcry
My out scry
of legends and myth
that tell me
I am more than what
I learned how to be,
& more than what You
and I see…


I believe more than me.