She is a living mandala of light and shadow, and she owes you nothing; she is the cocooned Creatrix unfurling wings so fragile they would crumble in sunlight.
Stand steadfast when the renegade, nameless Goddesses spread their black wings wide and become Her demoness Air Force. Burn these events into your memory, for they are the only ones that will matter soon. This is not the apocalypse, this is the dark moon dawn.
I crush my eyes closed, refusing to see any more, wondering why I had been born at all if these reflections show even a shred of truth. Surely, I should remain here in this Hall of Mirrors until I die thirsty and heartbroken. Surely, I have broken my soul-contract and will never gift the world ...
I suppose this sinful Witch will have much to answer for, but if I am to be tossed down to the devil’s house, I would like to get on with it.
She shows me a worldwide storm, and she names women the ambassadors of holy disruption. She shows me tribes of righteous feminine agents wearing bloody flower crowns and showing their aching parts to each other.
I am not the only one who lives here, my love. You know I share this holy ground with the Mother-Healer and Crone-Priestess, but the Masculine lives here too. The old Sage spiral-dances at the edge of death with his Crone consort, and the competitive, Protector Father makes love with the ...
You are the medicine woman unleashing a banshee’s cry at the old men marching outside of the abortion clinic. You are the Maiden dancing a body-prayer for clean water, and you will not rest. Your wrath is holy, and you won’t stop howling.
Our captors never thought we would have the Maiden’s mettle to break free, but they underestimated the collective ire of caged women.