Wiccan Warriors

Tears fall from flesh made of seas older than beyond dreams, ever dropping to ground, ever gathered and spilled to ocean. Gravity defiant, rising to wind beyond the sky, heated by light yet unknown the mixed tears of child and whale, grandmother’s pie and warriors alike join in scudding tear water clouds. Ever renewed the cycle forms, falling onto cold stone mountains – tricklets into pools and ponds to run and drip to salve dry parched earth. Lakes and rivers of tears swell to rise to my endless thirsty mouth. Rain falls from sky as tears from my eyes. Un-owned they mark our dusty flesh, tracking death and birth, struggle, pain and joy – I cried them last, now they are yours, past and tomorrow they belong to legion. All of life, and death, all of time is found through our tears, emotion’s common mark of the singular well of struggle, shared across worlds by ancestor and newborn. Rain falls from sky, tears from our eyes, drunk by oceans beyond thought, nurturing both spirit and flesh. Always and again mountains breathe warm sunlight – weeping for our fallen and lost.

NB:

This piece wandered around my room in two chunks until the day I found out the VA had approved the Pentacle for use on veterans headstones. It then forged itself and I quenched it in my silly old-man tears. It is dedicated to all of us who have served and more so all who have fallen or will fall on behalf of our sacred oath to the Goddess Libertas.

Vitas, Libertas et apetito felicitas.

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