Alchemy Of The Dark Feminine
Sultry, slithering and attuned, the awakened hiss of the rising serpent. Brave and mighty in the sickest nausea of destruction. Bringer of the grace in shadow flames and sword bearer of autonomous Queendom.
She, the sweetened massacre of dogma and the long-awaited reckoning of rage boiling up from ages of unrequited respect. She who commands value and smashes the unbearable demands of assault. Violation. Abuse. Repression.
She who licks her lips with a bloody thirst for the wisdom of the moon and the corpses of those who have chosen to ride the coattails of their own ugliest demons.
She, the slayer of patriarchal nightmares which have women tied to stakes as worthless objects. She who wields her gifts of weaving in stone circle portals, who climbs ancient cliffs and bleeds amongst the rapids of fast flowing rivers. To create and destroy, life and death, love and hate. She, the wickedly potent power of alchemy and the swirling tides in the bubbling cauldron.
The Goddess who initiates trauma, who passes her tongue over the wounds of the oppressors, cleansing the putrid contamination. The Dark Feminine who declares no more to this violent ignorance and bears new life with a smile at her crescent womb.
She, the ferocious fidelity to the funeral pyre. The terrifying screams made by pleasure, the dissolution of shame and the curdling chaos of corruption as it falls at her bare, bruised and callused feet. Stomping the grounds in the great banishing of this most toxic linear illusion.
She the invocation of dreamtime, where anger melts in the fires of alchemical madness, and re-emerges as a nectarous dance with the yew trees. As the raw pink petals open with the spiky leaves of heather. The bed of loam upon which the milkweed lays reverence on cold nights.
She, the sorceress of sensuality, sanctity and freedom, adorned with torc and crown, as she impales the hearth with rememberance. Crone Goddess of war leading a sovereign March of the Magi. A reclamation of the uproarious, untamed and spiral nature of this living, moving, breathing moment.
She, the black eyes of the raven and the wildish mane of the lioness, the hair-raising howl of the full moon wolf pack. The immortality, the quickening and the Magick itself. The righteous haunting of the inquisition and the channelled eulogy of this dying paradigm.
The enveloping ire which moves the quaking Earth and erupts the molten volcanoes, the fury unfolding in the tumultuous winds and convulsing seas of painful retribution.
She who is the keeper of the sacred wrath, who bends the darkness to her benefit and who settles for absolutely nothing less than respect.