Slipping through the cracks, an ethereal presence, a phantom being, slithers in deep silence, at the bottom of darkness, in the abyss. There’s more beyond the cracks: new intuition, a world still without words, unseen, barely heard, more felt. Old laws don’t work anymore, only the desire for birthing something new and free. Energy build up is what’s needed to fatten up the slithering smokey ghost.
I hear steady crumbling as the last degrees of march skid by. Degradation of matter, a snake shedding its skin in tatters, in a temple where nobody prays anymore. We’re are heading to the equinox of the wooden snake.
Never before did I feel as a vessel by vocation. Believed in burdens, painful shoulders, the clank of the machines. Never believed in the constancy of receiving flowing care, protection by right. Long and tedious is the low key hum of tooth and claw mindset, suppressed natural impulse, aching traps. Yet I seem to be slipping through the cracks, as I did once, many moons before. That I am only asked to wait, catch the right winds, and be the slithering vessel of an ebony world inside another, inhabitant of this new womb.
The new being floats as a headache, a suggestion in my spaced out brain. As I slide through, the first glimpse of a new time line, barely developed, is the hazy horizon after a grand fire. The slithering wooden snake goes forth, and is soon lost in the remaining rubble, the spray of fine debris. How she loves to stir up worlds like ours, watch us burn, but by the end, we will have birthed our new selves.