I am a wisewoman,

dishing out spiritual medicine to my flock.

I feed them the ashes of my failures,

ignorantly choking the weak of mind

with this inevitable dissolution

of their idea of a perfect and sane world.


I am a shamaness,

and I spend my days in a temporary state of death.

My rebirth comes at night:

invoking the stars, eyes wide and all-seeing,

my feet stamp out a song in the dirt

dragging the moon down with dreams, curiosity, and a war cry.


I am a child left behind,

nothing to my name but the shadowy haunts

of a distant, far-too-surreal past.

I tempt those stronger than me with hooks and bait–

not out of malice, no,

but out of the crushing loneliness

inspired by this graveyard of hopes and prayers

that I’ve dwelled within since the beginning of my time.


I am a mother without a child of my own.

Guide, protector, beloved and despised,

I give away my strength until there’s nothing left

but brittle bones and dried-up ink

in the sandpaper veins webbing beneath an ashen husk.

I give everything but Myself:

a gift for no other, a wish unmade.

For I may live without mind, body, or soul

but who am I if I give up my heart?