The Goddess of my destiny
is as a river unto me.
A mighty curling current flowing
through the hearts, of hearts, of hearts.
Through the afternoons and mornings.
Through the dusk and mine dark nights.
Through the hearts, of hearts, of hearts.
Becoming every thing She lights.
The stuff of life, Great Zoie, blends,
from notions, into finite forms.
Egoic grasping E.M.E.:
A damned and dreaming thing called me,
is carried and weathered by Her storms.
In streams and brooks and rivulets
of imagery construction:
She cuts and curls and bobs and swirls,
this helpless cork amid Her whirls,
and shapes and tempers nether worlds.
Creating by destruction.
Her rippling waves will stew and brew
wherever force meets with a force.
And all directions from the source
will know the passing of Her course.
She takes me with Her energy,
in the weft and weave of time and space;
rushing and flowing and drifting:
Fury and Chaos: Stillness and Grace.
A moth unto the flame, I am,
reforming in incarnate streams,
addicted to Her conjuring flow
and the fruit of Her wondrous schemes.
Whichever shore I rise upon:
A desert plain. An ocean moon.
A city; hive, or dry cocoon.
Neath' heaving main. In icy womb:
As human form. As beast or ant.
As blazing star. As parasite.
Whatever lot She gifts my soul,
I cherish and hold with all my might.
For I have heard the pan pipes shrill
and fed with ravens in the dawn,
and rode the serpent through the forest
where the tall mushroom are grown.
And I have bedded elfin maids
on downy leaves in shining glades,
and danced with fluid nymphs on pools
of sulphur, that would melt a blade.
I’ve slept beneath the dragon’s wing,
as she slumbered in her cave.
I’ve torn the guts from earthly kings,
and fed their entrails to their slaves.
Universes; I have blasted,
with Dharma’s nihilistic rays;
slain demigods, against all odds,
and rendered nought their days.
Her Knight, I am. Her feeble pawn,
Her paper boat set on the sea
to sink or sail; triumph or fail,
where ere’ Her washes, channel me.
To burn in torment of desire
and shed my blood to quench the fire.
Creation conflicts, generate;
ionospheric, membrane blips.
An exhaled sigh, then the sickle of Pi,
carves in the breath, Her breasts and hips.
Her splash and gurgle whisper rhyme,
Her weirs and torrents, roar design,
and sketch and mould the shape of time.
