alright

I'm here again, at this page. a mystery moving in me. 
north stars and pathways that sing the shining sea.
turning and moving, always at the start.
this constant reckoning of the human heart.

I'm the sightless storyteller, and the clueless reader all in one.
rhythms and ropework, pathmaking on the run.

weaving and mourning, looking for solid ground

what is quicksand and what the great round.

oh for a key,

for a well used map and ocean chart,

oh for gold unspun,

or port, a letter from home and a place to run aground.

shrinking

 ah. We found it you and I,
utterly hidden and scuppering the whole fleet.

we were busy with surgery but now we have the knife

so! to martial arts and scabbardry, and dressing the wound.

kismet

The Card of Sekhmet-

All being, All giving, Dark Golden Cat
(who ever fucking could be Ready For That).

of war and healing

of claws and keening

not the stuff of safety nets
and yet
and yet
and yet

with sunrise and swordcraft
and midnight fire
for memory and magic

redeeming desire

(the river of ghosts, and the noble son, wounded and brave, wholly undone)

(she calls, she calls as the snake eats the sun)

for rolling the dice and placing the bet,

for finding the temple,

for risking regret.

and now the scarab

and now the flame

Hecate's key is hidden again.