The Scriptures of Sovereignty...
What does it look like to trust yourself?
To doubtlessly claim each moment, pounding through pages of vast secrecy, scanning sheets from the Magick books kept hidden in the bat threaded lining of your inner caverns.
There where the violet crystal waters of wisdom leak through your skin and shine courageously through the porous portals of your flesh.
What does it feel like to douse yourself in rose petal water, howling with a sound that rivals only that of the wildest wolf and caressing the curves of your own body with your practiced wrists, your callused palms.
What does it look like to grasp a pen so tightly you can’t let go, driven by some undying force into rewriting your own herstory. Into rewriting a moment in time which changed you, which initiated you. A declaration that feels so devastatingly important, so deliciously significant, that it claws at you in the dream-time. It wakes you up with a dizzying thrust, demanding to be told, expressed, voiced, heard.
When you have finally had enough of embryonic entrapment, being spoon fed your path by the parenting puppets of a wounded society.
What does it look like when you take back your power as a woman.
To make art out of all those lingering dreams from your childhood. To dance compassionate dominion all over the shadowy streaks of shame riddled scrapes and sores.
To intuitively brand yourself with flaming vows, to carve your actions in solid stone, to whisper loud songs and sprinkle saltwater around the bare edges of your muddy feet.
When you find yourself clinging to the widest tree, praying to ground into trust, only to see a humble caterpillar nestled in between the wrinkles of bark, empowered in surrender, resting before the great transformation.
When all of the voices fade into the background and all that’s left is that one moment, face to face with the moon, when you can hear your own voice so clear and so pure. Ah, yes! That’s it. That’s the one you want to listen to.
What does it look like behind all those layers of clothing, flesh, bone, fears…
What does it look like to bathe stain free, after bleeding unknowingly all over your lace skirt?
To courageously claim what words you are free to speak, for this precious time that you have them.
When you peer at the mighty brick wall and demand demolition, there is nothing but some honorable welcome in the dust as it crumbles at your feet. A welcome to behold the decadent poetry alive and moving within.
These are the Scriptures of Sovereignty.