Red Moon Goddess

April 27, 2019

 

 

I am the mistress of the red door, which sits in waiting in the quiets of the vast desert. There embedded in the wild rock, a portal painted over through centuries. Over and over it has dried under the blazing sun light and cracks appearing like antique arteries reveal themselves.

 

I am the weaver of braided veins, a ribbon among those voices which rise into unison. I spread like the roots of the redwood through the most precious parts of shared ground. Each layer of bark falls away with the fidelity of time’s cryptic indifference. There are secret markings in the tracks of the footsteps I follow.

 

I am the red river in the moonlit hollow. There are carved symbols of planets and coded poetry along the length of the polished branch. It mimics a paintbrush which grants wishes to witches at a stroke to Earth’s canvas.

 

I am the eight-legged dancing spider, tossing red silk thread through forests and kneeling in worship beneath the web. It spreads like a spiral with small sections where lines intertwine. It seems to be awaiting the arrival of a dream. It holds space transparent and so real, like a world between worlds. Like the red door in the wild rock in the vast desert. Like a magick circle.

 

I am the red witch, ladling the blood from my cauldron and into the guarded chamber in the soft soil. The carefully selected stones surround and rose petals infused with gracious lovemaking are scattered about, each one with purpose and reason. The motions are meticulous and the grass eager to burst forth.

This gown is not for show. It wraps this body in red lace and showers down upon itself to indulge in the restless sensation of determined feet.

 

I am the keeper of the red widow which lives inside of me, mourning the loss of her beloved, the wounded warrior. She holds the delicate skull close to her heart, knowing soon she will birth him anew.

 

I am the keeper of the red mother which lives inside of me, nurturing the blue baby bells with soft lullabies and a silver watering urn.

 

I am the keeper of the red maiden which lives within me, aroused and enraged, innocent and sweet and impossible to contain.

 

Like the serpent rising I settle into my new skin and leave trails wide enough to move through with purpose.

 

I am the red moon goddess and I hunt relentlessly with bow and arrow by the seething rush which holds lost infidelities and sleepless nights, misshapen words and deformed love.

 

I reclaim the feelings I never before had an opportunity to feel.

 

I feel them with honor and reverence and courage.

 

I enter the red and I rise.

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