Magick

Dear soul,

keeper of time and space,

guardian of the precious people,

whose soiled palms

pull at your hems.

I know you feel the world’s burden

is yours to bear -

but it is not so.

It's up to you, however,

to take it upon your own Heart

to heal

your own Self.

So weave

your two worlds;

make flush

your two skins

and become united

with what never was disembodied.

And before you fear this magnitude of transmutation

from outer grief to inner relief,

before you cry to the hills and send for the medicine makers,

know this:

Rituals are not prescriptions

for the sacred

but small expressions of divinity

that already reside

within you.

And wisdom is not

held by secret-keepers

but in the knowing of

your bones.

And words are medicinal;

inoculations

for

nocturnal minds.

Small doses of strength

made every day to combat

the spread of separateness.

And you are not a healer;

but an alchemist,

transmuting the pain of laceration

into sacred wholeness.

Go now,

make sovereignty of quiet.

And tend to the magick

that is not here for you

but of you.

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