I am a priestess of the dark.

It pours through me like a holy river.

All the rest is pantomime;

a trojan horse to

deliver

ruin to your ramparts,

remembrance

to your aching heart.

 

You ask me if I tire

from all this giving —

oh, beloved,

if I believed this love was mine

or of limited supply

I might;

but I know

I’m being used,

there’s nought to give

that was ever mine, so

 

my land surrenders

to the river and

I am washed and carried

by a greater life.

 

I ask of you

when you arrive,

confused with sleep

in your childish eyes —

“why are you here?”

and you all offer

the very same line:

 

“I don’t know why.

I really don’t know why.”

 

That’s fine —

I do.

 

You’re here for that drop

that’ll last you a lifetime.

 

The rhythms from afar

drummed an old song on your heart;

the words had no meaning

but carried the tune, so

let my words wash like tides;

let my hands be the horizon

over which you disappear;

there’s little for me to do

now you’re here

 

and I’m here

shedding all the skins

I dressed me in,

the robes around my shoulders

so I could step onto the temple floor

the attire I required to

believe that I belonged here

the sermons I acquired

the knowledge borrowed,

moves mastered,

courage mustered —

nothing’s left, and

I don’t need it anymore.

 

I am,

I am,

I am

the secret word

that opens

the back door

to the all

and the nothing

and the

darkness

at your core.