Lyrical Ego Death //

It seems there's threads of silver in everything I wove

Surrendering is not my style by nature, my instinct steels resolve and it clings to clear language with no bushes to beat or dilly dallying on feet. I’ve worked hard to wipe away the cobwebs, taking my time cleansing my third lens.

I have a third?

I’ve bared my back to the sun and shown my forty-minus-ones. Floggings don’t cower me, they leave red memories in safe places where I can relate and cease pains with fore words and no hate.

Oh, those floggings.

I am not ashamed of my ways, I persist in humility because I know my weaknesses, I know when ego and pride surface, and from a distance I can smell the apathy in bitterness. Maybe that’s why I appreciate some of the pain, opportunities to control moments through the things I say by experiencing Trust instead of Faith.

There’s no fear in love and no love in fear.

I hold myself to it, diligent and never without intent, always intent, intent that I can define, the kind that I can claim as mine. I’m no victim to fear, I long ago let go of those chains on my soul, and I stay a predator to my prey. I carefully identify then I neutralize in my ever present conquest, no fear remains as lord over the body of my days.

And what happens to the Id?

Instinct isn’t for the spiritually oppressed, it doesn’t belong to the elite blessed nor the willfully dense. That is all Id wants, that is all spirits like this seek in their haunts. Primality, risky sorcery through the use of a conscience in a way that benefits. There’s no world where a buried Id remains oppressed. By it’s own feral nature it will destroy or liberate the depressed.

so there’s no need to Resurrect again?

Resurrections are for the dead and not the potent living, I had to dig through hell and back to find that fact. I hunched over scrolls, books and dove into necromantic hopes, witching hours and inverted Towers. I may have summoned troubles but now I tell about them without watching my life crumble.

the shimmering wet all around me,
I let moonwater touch my feet
circle about my space like a wreathe
I practice intentionality

I protect my Keep, and unlike the godmen my spine is not weak

my feet rise above the ground,
seven inches of float
smudging smoke
in bright moonlight
a luminary hope

and unlike the vile creatures like harbingers and preachers of punishment, I speak of strength, things my hand can touch and feel with sense

swirling twirls of smoky vines
embrace my knees and thighs
climbing up to a neck with no tie
but beads of ancestry memories
and arms with tattooed lives

unlike the wolves with sheep cloaks I found no need to hide my snarl or fang, no reason to hold back, I howl with the dogs in the hills without fear of who hears nor what calls back

old skins have long ago shed
habits long ago changed and left
I said my habits were a means
the mean is where I've been led
now they come to me
when there's nothing left
for healing and truth
liberty and my protectant rue
for me nothing less will do.