Mystic Writing

January 31, 2019

Taste the liquid poetry that moves with the cool breath of Brigid and falls like fluffy pheromones from the sky into the tantalizing rapture of self. It is time sweet one. As the wheel turns and the sun grows strong, sense the silent stirring of ancient grains and dark moist seeds stir beneath you, hinting the time is near.

These are the ghostly seeds which you planted when the trees were dressed in orange and the harvest of the shadow self loomed overhead. The seeds which hold your fragile dreams and tender heart sonnets. It is time now to create and burn radiant through the pages from your crisp sky-dwelling spirit. It is time to tenderly ravage the thick book of your history and consume the heavy-set snowflakes infused with he...

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