still asking for more

I know why I am here.

There is sacred geometry etched in your eyes, a divinity mirrored only in the moon’s reflection on dark waters. It pools in you. Celestial secrets drip from your fingertips, shards of silver stardust imbued with ancient wisdom. This is what I crave.

Fervent supplication seeps from my soul. I am wholly devout. Plant nails of sacrifice in my palms and let me rise from the stone. Alchemical ritual, forge me of both saint and stone. Make me marble: cold, pious stone. Drain the blood from my veins and let me hemorrhage depravity. Carve me of sainthood; venerate me. Pluck my eyes from their sockets and grant me vision. Gild me in reverence and solidify me in stone. Tether me past, present, and future. Temporal and eternal: divine triptych, bound maiden, mother, and crone.

Do not let me rot.

Show me what it is to be both waxing and waning. Teach me to swallow snakes, digest their venom, and pull wisdom from my teeth. Drip arcane secrets into my ears. Show me where the duality resides; I ache to find the light in the shadow. Dissolve me and reconfigure my atoms.

Let beatification begin. Consume me in tender worship, a divine mantle draped upon me. Devout pilgrimage and prayer to absolve me. Celebrate my sanctity with sacrifice. Monumental embodiment, standing as a singular altar. I want tradition.

Dorothea Blythe