Morning, Day Four: Law of Three to make Seven.
Sun blistered wind,
Quarter way to summit War’s Hill;
Muscles burning, stumbling over the stones I placed on the trail;
Shoulders bending under my own burdens packed;
Chest gasping for cooler air than my own stale exhaust;
Eyes begging for level ground
I would not let be found.
Unaware, I fail to recognize demons as allies,
Mistaking them for ghosts of my ancient failures—
Pressing backward, running from my self.
Who is that hiding behind Crone’s Tree,
The shadow I?
Defense sung sharp,
Who is hiding under Quartz Stone,
My well formed gods?
Who is that hiding between Raven’s Wings,
Trembling me, aching to flee?
Avoiding history’s trauma,
Though Demons despised,
Their haunting familiarity lingers as mystic clouds
Whispering wind wisdom through the Rowans, saying:
“Companionship we shadow demons offer.”
Their voices fetching me to risk
What the I of me
Fears to lose:
A crammed rucksack of masks...
Much lighter now,
Hand in hand,
My demons and I,
Lean into what we lovers are becoming—
What always was already;
The True Self of Us being one intimate soul.