Oh, my crooked girlfriend,
It is time for radical thinking.
You dance on hallowed ground,
And every bit —
Bone and blood
Root, wire and wing —
Is demanding now
A bent knee.

It is yours to ask.
Yours to take.
The coveted illusion —
Individuation —
Always was the sin.
But the beast
Does not know better
In these distorted
And distended places.

Still, leading
And following —
There is an instinctual dance,
And wisdom in it
If you would just listen.
And there is nothing,
To find or reveal.
No tools.
No method.
No path.

She is always filling this cup.
The feast —
Such myriad pleasures —
Is always on the table.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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