Posted by: isoldeofavalon | April 10, 2013

The Darkest Hour, a poem about my PMDD

The Darkest Hour

 

A crushing weight sinks deep into my chest

As the caged animal is freed for the month.

The switch is flipped in my brain and this gaunt she-wolf hungry for a fight.

A tormented lioness, tearing and scratching at everything and anything

Because I am so desperate to stop the self-loathing pain.

 

Whispered doubts run ‘round and ‘round inside my own mind

While depression wraps its tentacles around my swollen, aching body

And drags me deeper into the molasses of my own mental Hell.

 

Waves of misery wash over me like a tsunami,

Driving away any hope or prayer of having normal brain chemistry.

Anxiety brings salty tears and there are few who can prevent

The many fears battering away at my heart and soul.

 

The gaunt she-wolf, the tormented lioness, the monster that is PMDD

Paces and snarls around and around deep inside of my brain,

Bringing all of my darkest thoughts to the forefront.

The migraines being to attack, creating a pain that pulses in time with my heart

And makes the world spin and dance like a psychotic carnival ride.

 

All my well-wrought defenses: medication, exercise, and writing fall flat

As the monster that is my PMDD burns everything in its path down to the ground.

In the deepest, darkest part of the night, as hysterical sobs wrack my body

I know that this dark twin must burn itself out and there is nothing to do but wait

For sanity to resume as I curl up, small and alone, under well-worn covers

Praying for the start of the Moon’s blood to curb this mess and

The strength to ride out the tide of monthly mental instability.

 

 

Posted by: isoldeofavalon | January 22, 2013

The Witch stands alone. I have always been the black sheep in my family.

 

John S,  my Aunt Laura’s ill-tempered lout of a husband, does not like me. I don’t think he ever has. Cold, beady blue eyes stare and glare at me over rimmed eye glasses, a sneer plastered on his face as he watches Phil and I from across the table on Thanksgiving.

 

“Eat, eat!” He urge my boyfriend and I drunkenly. I glare. He may be okay consuming an exorbitant amount of unhealthy foods—as is seen by the rotund paunch of a stomach—but neither Phil nor I are like that.

 

Next comes the urge to drink, as if he was some dark creature luring us into the temptations of alcoholism. Misery does love company they say and he is the perfect example.

 

Now comes the leers and the barbed comments, all designed to unsettle and provoke. “So you two like each other, huh? I can tell. Boob! I remember when we were like that!” His voice is all too loud for my dining room.

 

As he creepily wraps his arm around my oh-so-charming younger sister Alicia, it is plain to see that she is the one both Laura and John favor. Dozens upon dozens of photographs litter the ettige and show the happy trio, but all of mine are either school pictures or in a group family photograph. I can’t even remember the last time I took a picture with my Aunt Laura.

 

Alicia knows this too, and wields it as weapon in her limited arsenal. Her chins wiggle and dance upon her face as her voice grows colder and far crueler. It’s just like John’s—especially when she makes a hurtful comment towards me. From the very moment of her birth, we have been rivals and archenemies, never sisters.

 

I must confess that I never wanted a little sister; indeed I would have been perfectly happy and content with my parents buying me a dog or a cat. And who knows? Perhaps owning a pet would have alieviated my childhood depression. But no, I got stuck with a sibling and even at eight years old, I resented her for stealing my place. I resented my parents too, for adding to my private hell. I was already suffering from depression thanks to the constant threat of being bullied at school, and my only solace, my only comfort, was being with my parents and my family.

 

And then, on January 8th 1994, even that comfort was denied to me and the only advice I ever received on how to deal with bullies was my mother telling me to get a sex-change operation so they’d stop tormenting me. Some help I got.

 

Time passed, and my scars grew. I’m not sure when my suicidal ideation started, but it peaked when I began to menstruate and my PMDD kicked in with all the force of a deadly tidal wave. For years, I suffered in my own hormonal hell, not knowing what was happening to me.

 

Alicia, of course, was “the golden child”, blessed with good looks, thinness, and a life of ease. All I had was my Second Sight and my intelligence. I lumbered around, too depressed and uncomfortable in my overweight, pudgy body to do anything to change it. As a Witch, I have always hovered on the fringes of society and I was always uncanny, even as a child.

 

But nothing lasts forever, and things change. I grew up, went to college, got into belly dance, and was prescribed Yaz to control my PMDD. I started down the road to being healthy and losing weight. I grew as a Witch and as a woman; and I’m finally at peace with my body and myself today. I have a boyfriend now, and a decent relationship with my parents.

 

Converesly, Alicia was diagnosed with dysthymia.  All her long years of being indulged in her childhood and John sensing that she is weak prey to be manipulated and mold to his exact specificayions made her rage. It also brought forth the cruelty that had always been dormant in her—until now. I still remember the time when she viciously kicked me in the stomach several times when I refused to bring her in leftover pumpkin pie.  After that incident, it felt as if any good traits in her have long been smothered.

 

She lost her thinness too, which contributed to her anger. Weak knees gave way to weight gain and the psychiatric medications piled pound after pound on her sturdy frame. Now all Alicia does is glower on the couch, a focus for all the negative energy in the house and watch television. Occasionally she’ll surf the web or text, but she’s constantly glued to the metal box in the living room to the extent that she ignores everyone else.

 

Given her issues, I can’t say that I’m surprised at how she tries her damndest to make my relatives turn away from me. Jealousy is a powerful motivator, and the figure glowering from her blanket cocoon is both angry and jealous that I refuse to be the family’s verbal and emotional punching bag any more. This Witch is taking her broom and flying free.

 

I study them all on Thanksgiving, all three so smug, so cruel, so materialistic, and so utterly heartless.  My mind flashes back to May of 2011 when the ultimate deterioration happened between my sister and I.

 

Alicia had been angry and insecure about her massive weight gain; I can understand and empathize. I fought my own battles all those years ago—and unlike her, I’m not heartless. Still, her hatred of my stubborn determination to get into shape only fueled the flames. Her eyes flashed with malice and jealousy slowly consumed her soul as she slowly realized that finally-finally-I was comfortable enough in my own skin to wear a bikini at the pool during that summer.

 

On one shopping trip with Laura and John, my PMDD was at its worst and I lost my temper after having to constantly listen to her nasty and belittling remarks. Doors slamming shut, temper tantrums, and barbed comments that constantly pricked my skin over and over again were the order of the day, it seemed. And of course, her behavior went unpunished because who would discipline the Golden Child, even if she’d fallen so far off her pedestal and shattered into a million pieces? Who would defend the Witch, the uncanny one who frightens them all with her insights? No one in my family, that’s for damn sure.

 

 A red rage descended over me, born of the PMDD and I snapped. An angry tigress took my place, one that wanted to snap and hurt and tear and scratch just to get her enemy off of her back. One that just wanted some peace and quiet on a shopping trip, after all.

 

The anger over being emotionally and verbally abused that I had kept at bay for close to two decades was unleashed. I was sick of being shoved aside and dropped when I needed comfort the most, sick of being told to ignore the fallen Golden Child’s endless taunts, and heartily sick of being everyone’s goddamned emotional punching bag. Perhaps I should have strove to kept my temper, but everyone has a breaking point and on that fateful night, I discovered mine.

 

The fight was nasty but the aftermath was even worse. Per the usual order of things, my parents blamed me for losing my temper and “not being mature enough”. Why they keep telling me to ignore her when they turn a blind eye to her cruelty is something I don’t think I’ll ever understand, to tell the truth.

 

Laura didn’t talk to me much after that and John? Well, John gave me hateful glares while flat out ignoring my presence. It was as if I didn’t exist in his world. And that, my friends, was the turning point.

 

Over the span of the next 48 hours, I heard from the only other relative who was still supporting me, my Aunt Susan. Ironic that, as I had always been given hell as a kid for wearing her face and taunted with the prospect that if I don’t get my act together, I’d wind up bipolar, fat, alone, and unhappy just like her.

 

Despite those ridiculous warnings, she was my only ally and this time, she let me know that when John and Laura were fawning over  La Princepessa (as she had not so lovingly dubbed Alicia), that there was talk that I had an eating disorder. Apparently, La Princepessa gleefully told them that I was in danger of developing an undisclosed eating disorder and that when everyone knew the truth, she was going to laugh in my face.

 

Laura’s ears perked up with the chance of gossip and she made many faux-concerned comments about the state of my health, which included bizarre text messages to me about my workout routine and my diet plan. John, on the other hand took immense pleasure in this act of malice and soon  the three of them were delightfully engaged in a cruel discussion, and I wasn’t not even there to defend myself.

 

Once again, no action was taken from my parents.  I had been condemned for wearing my Aunt Susan’s face in my childhood and had been bullied so much that there were times before the PMDD diagnosis that I was terrified that I too, was bipolar and my Fate would be the same as hers. It is truly ironic that the one person who does threaten to follow in my Aunt Susan’s footsteps is Alicia.

 

As for me? Well, I was lucky enough to escape with PMDD and mild anxiety; and the the Gods know that’s no walk in the park, either.

 

I study them some more from across the Thanksgiving table, my hand firmly wrapped around my boyfriend’s. Phil steadies me, reminding me that this Witch has escaped their clutches. All I need is a full-time job so that I can save up to move out and I’m gone.

 

Still, in a way I do feel sorry for my Aunt Laura. I take in her glazed-over expression and wondered. What made her so desperate for a husband that she’d chose a man who I’d bet money on has Anti-Social Personality Disorder? Alicia I have never really considered to be a real sister to me, and yet I still feel sorry for her too. Still, I know we’ll both be happier when we can go our separate ways and never have to talk to each other much, if at all, ever again. My parents will feel unfathomable sorrow at that statement and bleat about family therapy, but it’s too late. The damage is done.

 

No amount of family therapy can fix my wounds because let’s face it—some scars are too deep to heal. And besides, they’re still in denial and can’t—or won’t—accept the fact that their youngest daughter is ultimately not the nicest person and has severe issues. It’d just be a waste of time. The Princess and the Witch cannot be reconciled for they are too different.

 

And for John? He is my avowed enemy. I’ve disliked him from the start ever since I was a little kid, but I didn’t have the knowledge or maturity to verbalize or understand why.  I still remember how he picked up my grandfather’s walker and threatened him with it during an argument when I was a child. We will always be opponents.

 

I give Phil’s hand another squeeze and thank my Gods that my boyfriend is nothing like that emotionally abusive and manipulative monster as my mother starts serving the main course at Thanksgiving.

Posted by: isoldeofavalon | January 2, 2013

Posted by: isoldeofavalon | November 14, 2012

The Silver Wolf

Product of insomnia. *shakes head*

The Silver Wolf

 Heart gaping, bloody and raw, she flees

Through the snow-covered night, ice crusting her fleet thick paws

Sorrow ever-eating at her mind

As heavy limbs feel burdened by iron

 

Moonlight glints upon the soft silver fur

Tousled and bloody from her escape

Wolves don’t do well in cages, she thinks

Not even when that cage is the members of her own pack

She lurches to a stop, too sick to run any longer.

 

Bloody paw prints mark her wild panic-stricken flight

As her heart still beats rapidly in the spot where she’d left it,

So many unaccounted miles ago.

Crimson-spackled chest mats once silky fur and yet

Does nothing to dull the pain of her broken heart.

 

Defiant, furious, still fleeing her cage, she sings

Pouring out her sorrow to the Moon Goddess

A song of heart-breakingly beautiful pain;

A pain that tore out her heart with the sharp edge of an ice-knife

And that froze all her feelings.

 

The silver wolf curls up in upon herself as the snowstorm rages around her,

Her pain and the cold touch of the ice’s kiss still pouring out the crimson liquid

And settles about her fur and the far-too-uncomfortable snow.

The land’s frozen kiss freezes her instinct to flee, to fight,

Leaving only a wintry shell in its wake.

Posted by: isoldeofavalon | November 6, 2012

They Will Never Understand us [Writing Piece]

Non-New Yorkers will never truly understand us.

 I see the devastation of Staten Island, where I once spent four years of college and have friends and family who live there. It’s in my blood, and my roots there go deep. In a tangled mass of coils, blood and experience tie me to Staten Island, no matter how much I deny the fact. The raging storms have destroyed the borough, tearing threw houses as if they were so many children’s toys and letting chaos reign through the water-logged streets. Friends and family shivered in houses that felt as if they were made of ice and downed trees and power lines made it impossible for Con Ed to repair as quickly as they could.

 Other friends lost truly everything; their entire memories are gone, washed out to sea and never to be recovered. A woman I haven’t talked to since high school could have died along with her entire family; their Manhattan Beach house was one of the many hundreds of targets of Sandy’s wrath. Watching her frantic Facebook posts as she begged for help, not knowing if she was going to live or die, not knowing if I was going to wake up to find out she and her family drowned in the ice-cold waters of the storm surge, made me feel maddeningly helpless. She survived, along with her entire family, but it could have very easily went the other way.

 I was very, very, very lucky; my house had partial power, hot water, and heat; also since both my cable and Internet was spared, I could still make money by freelance writing. My other neighbors weren’t so luck. A 90-year old woman lives on my block and her daughter raised hell for Con Ed to come and fix her power. Meanwhile, my other neighbor John and his wife shivered uncontrollably at night with no heat or hot water; the same goes for the elderly Greek grandmother down the street and the young couple who have a baby boy. My neighbors were suffering, and while the Con Ed workers were doing the best they could, their management really dropped the ball.

 And yet I’m the one who gets hit in the face by so-called “friends”, people who say things like “Oh, a hurricane knocked out your power? I wonder what that’s like…” and who get up on their high horse because they’ve lived through hurricane after hurricane and blatantly tell your friends right after you’ve posted about your current situation “So have some patience with the idiots who haven’t been through something like this, and post stupid shit” as a dig at you.

 Non-New Yorkers will never truly understand us.

 These people will never understand our city, our way of life, or how we’re bound, blood and bone, to our communities. As a child whose ancestors were immigrants, fleeing Ireland and Italy to find a better life overseas, our kith and kin built up different neighborhoods and for better or worse, we’re tied to those neighborhoods and each other.

 As New Yorkers, we often get a bad reputation. But when calamity strikes, it doesn’t matter if you are rich or poor, black, white, or pink, we band together and we help one another. The raging sea water of Sandy couldn’t bring us down and we will rebuild. We will be back and better than ever, and those ties of blood and bone to the land and to each other will be reinforced for the better with a stronger sense of community, love, and friendship.

Non-New Yorkers will never truly understand us but that’s okay: we understand each other, and that’s all we need. Not even Sandy’s wrath can break our strong sense of community. We’re New Yorkers, and we stand strong even through the face of adversity.

 

Posted by: isoldeofavalon | October 11, 2012

A Pagan Feminist Vs A “Nice Guy”

Dear readers,

Holy shit. The past few days have been full of drama, thanks to this “Nice Guy” Stephen G from the writer’s group I’m in picking a fight with me. I knew he was a conservative douche (liked an FB page bitching about “having to pay for women’s BC”) and was a Romney fan (dear Gods, WHY?) but this took the case.

He’d been Facebook Creeping me for a while-constantly commenting on conversations he wasn’t a part of, messaging my boyfriend, and butting into conversations on FB between my boyfriend and I. The BF and I thought he had a crush on me, but who knows. His stories in the writing group were also problematic as they were mainly all about guys who are angry and bitter after women had hurt them-and the last one, Stephen killed off the wife and teenaged daughter. So yea, there were a bunch of red flags already.

My friend Kagami commented on my status about how she saw belly dancers and awesome Tudor costumes at her local Ren Faire and thought of me. Now Stephen, who doesn’t know Kagami, posted this:

“Take me to the belly dancers!”

Me: “Belly dancing is NOT a sexual dance, it is rooted in the folk dances of the Middle East and today it is a celebration of feminine power and beauty. We’re not strippers or sex objects.”

SG:Sorry I offended you. You aren’t sex objects. I just like pretty girls.

Me: “ But even that comment (“I just like pretty girls”) is problematic in and of itself too. It’s the whole “male privilege”/”male gaze” that forces women to always feel as if they have to “look pretty” because they are just seen as commodifications by the patriarchal society that we live in and there is SEVERE pressure for women to fit a beauty ideal that just isn’t achievable. You may think you’re giving them an innocent compliment, but it’s reinforcing a very dangerous part of the culture that we live in. There is SO MUCH violence against women and I have a very low tolerance for comments like that, especially since I’ve been a victim of street harrassment/catcalling because some asshole thinks “I’m pretty” and it’s okay to comment on that.”

I love how this asshat says “we’re not sex objects” but says “he just likes pretty girls”. WHAT THE FUCK. It’s problematic for the reasons I listed above, but it’s also triggering-some of my friends and relatives have been in emotionally abusive relationships or have low self-esteem thanks to all the shit society throws at us, saying we’re only worthwhile if men think we’re hot and we fit some random ass beauty ideal. How would they feel if they saw this douchewaffle’s comment?

Anyway, so he messages me this:

SG: I hope you’re not mad at me. I didn’t mean to strike a nerve with you. I just like seeing pretty girls is all. I don’t view women as sex objects, if that’s what you were implying. Quite the opposite. I view most as unobtainable, actually. Please forgive me.

Hello, Nice Guy Syndrome!

Me: Look, a bit of advice from a woman? I’m not trying to be a bitch, merely educating because let’s face it, unless they majored in Gender Studies, most men don’t really know about Feminist concepts like male privilege, Nice Guy Syndrome, the male gaze, etc. Their male privilege protects them and society reinforces it.

The whole “pretty girls are unobtainable” comment is uncomfortable because it’s akin to a lot of what you see with Nice Guy Syndrome. Most of the “Nice Guys” that I have encountered (especially in college) feel that women are unobtainable because of “x,y, and z” but while they claimed that they weren’t viewing them as sex objects, they didn’t realize that a) they suffered from Nice Guy Syndrome and b) admiring someone for their looks IS still contributing to rape culture and commodification of women. Which you probably didn’t mean to do, but it’s still VERY problematic. But most men don’t see it, because their male privilege protects them and they don’t suffer what women have to suffer: street harrassment/catcalling, peer pressure to look “pretty”, etc.

Male privilege is a HUGE part of why women still suffer in this rape culture and as a Feminist, it’s my duty to point it out and combat it wherever I see it.

For more on Nice Guy Syndrome, there’s this article written by my friend Illyssa: http://wtfwhatthefeminist.blogspot.com/2011/06/why-nice-guys-arent-actually-nice.html

SG: I meant they’re unobtainable because I lack the self confidence women admire. Good ones anyway. That’s what I meant. I NEVER catcall to women, nor would I go do that at one of your bellydancing things. I would never go if I was invited anyway. I think you’re misreading me. I’m not a misogynistic pig. Please don’t think that.

Ahhhh, so only “good” women are worthy of your praise? And you say you’re not a misogynistic pig. Okay. Whatever.

SG:I hate that you think I’m this fucking pig. I’m not. I’m just a stupid asshole that doesn’t think before speaking. I was only kidding before

SG: That article doesn’t apply to me. I don’t ecpect women to put out. I actually find that gross and a turnoff and a sign of little self respect on her part. I was with a girl a few years ago that moved like that and used me as a punching bag for her problems. Why does that sound familiar? I’m a bad person, not an evil person.

Me: I don’t think you’re necessarily a jerk, but I am trying to educate you on male privilege and why it was disrespectful to post those comments. It would be like me posting a comic dealing with religious humor that included Muhammad on a devout Muslim’s page.

I do not hide the fact that I am a Feminist and a Witch, and do not approve of jokes that highlight male privilege or rape culture on my page.That should’ve been obvious from day one. I’ve been a victim of street harassment since I was a teenager, and I have dear friends and relatives who have been harassed or abused because they were women. As such, it is my duty as both a Feminist and a Witch to educate men about male privilege and rape culture in the hopes of eradicating it from society.

It’s never a good thing when men and women use their significant other as a punching bag for their problems, but it is far worse when a man does it, or seeks to gaslight women because of the rape culture which systematically protects male privilege and sets up women to believe their worth is only in their looks and if they speak up or express their emotions, they are shut down or portrayed as “crazy”.

If you’re talking about me using you as a verbal punching bag, uh no. I have an actual punching bag I can beat the crap out of hanging in my garage, I don’t need to take my anger out on anyone. That’s why I box, kickbox, and run.

If you want to educate yourself on women, check out Feministing.org and Jezebel, they are excellent resources and starting points.

But if you’re still going to try and argue with me, this conversation is over. I don’t have the time or energy to try and continue to educate someone on Feminism and why male privilege is harmful. If that which you seek you find not within, then you shall never find it without.

And now I have to work on my writing.

SG: Uh No. You need to calm the fuck down and not use me as a punching bag for Your problems. I didn’t mean to strike a nerve with you but I did. You are taking this way too personally. I tried to apologize but you won’t listen. Your problem, not mine. You just think I am a sexist jerk and I really fucking resent your insinuations. Deal with your problems, ok? Keep living in your feminist delusions that all men (except the ones you control) are out to get you. Put that shit back in the 70s where it belongs. I’m sorry for my remarks but you won’t forgive me. I’m not this monster but you won’t listen. All men are scum, right? Grow up. You’re the one fighting not me.


I love how this asshat implies that I control my boyfriend,who got pissed off enough at the drama that he sent him this message:

Hey, Amanda has let it come to light that you two are having an argument on Facebook, she has also sent me the messages between the two of you regarding the argument.  This argument you are having ends now.  She is getting creeped out by what you are saying.   Let me start with the whole “girl” debacle that seemed to have started it.  Amanda, if you don’t know, is a feminist and most, if not all feminists view the word “girl” as derogatory toward women.  They also don’t like being viewed as objects that are obtainable and the word “pretty” is also usually used to describe one’s daughter when she is younger. 

Amanda can fight her own battles but I am extremely protective of her and want this argument to stop, it’s aggravating her and I don’t like seeing her like that. 

Anyway, so Stephen G got pissed and emailed Evelyn, the head of the writer’s group. I think he wanted to get me kicked out of the group so he could stay in, but thankfully when I explained how uncomfortable he made me, she said we’ll just let him go and to not feel guilty about causing unnecessary drama. Considering even my friend Omyma thought he was a fucking creep, I think a lot of the members didn’t like him. So good riddance to a misogynistic and creepy asshole!

–Amanda

Posted by: isoldeofavalon | August 19, 2012

A Devotional To Lady Hekate

O Hekate,

Queen of the Moon.

Lady Trivia,

Lady of Illumination,

She Who Holds The Torch Of Truth,

I thank You for the many manifold blessings

That You have bestowed upon me;

On Your Feast Day, I give Thanks and Praise Your Most Holy Name,

Lady of the Dark Moon,

Send Your Hounds to ever guide me upon The Path of Righteousness,

Oh Mistress of Magic, Light my Way so that I may live to see a brighter Day,

Lady Trivia, Three-Formed One,

Show Me the Path I must take to leave sorrow & misfortune behind in my wake,

O Mistress of the Moon,

Lead me upon the quickest Path so that I may feel Joy soon,

O Queen of the Night, On Your Most Holy Feast Day,

I Praise Your Might,

Your Wisdom us like the Light of the Moon,

And Your Torch is a Boon to all Who Follow Thee,

O gracious Lady, Mighty Queen,

Bearer Of The Torch of Illumination,

Gather Your Hounds & set Them Upon the Rounds,

So that we, Your Followers, may Walk the Path of Truth and

Ever see a brighter day and make a Lay,

To Praise Your Most Holy Name All Day and all Night

So That everyone may know of Hekate’s Might.

Posted by: isoldeofavalon | August 19, 2012

A Devotional To Lady Hekate

O Hekate,

Queen of the Moon.

Lady Trivia,

Lady of Illumination,

She Who Holds The Torch Of Truth,

I thank You for the many manifold blessings

That You have bestowed upon me;

On Your Feast Day, I give Thanks and Praise Your Most Holy Name,

Lady of the Dark Moon,

Send Your Hounds to ever guide me upon The Path of Righteousness,

Oh Mistress of Magic, Light my Way so that I may live to see a brighter Day,

Lady Trivia, Three-Formed One,

Show Me the Path I must take to leave sorrow & misfortune behind in my wake,

O Mistress of the Moon,

Lead me upon the quickest Path so that I may feel Joy soon,

O Queen of the Night, On Your Most Holy Feast Day,

I Praise Your Might,

Your Wisdom us like the Light of the Moon,

And Your Torch is a Boon to all Who Follow Thee,

O gracious Lady, Mighty Queen,

Bearer Of The Torch of Illumination,

Gather Your Hounds & set Them Upon the Rounds,

So that we, Your Followers, may Walk the Path of Truth and

Ever see a brighter day and make a Lay,

To Praise Your Most Holy Name All Day and all Night

So That everyone may know of Hekate’s Might.

Posted by: isoldeofavalon | July 24, 2012

The Breaker Of Worlds-A Devotional Poem to Loki

Author’s note: Wrote this after finding out a guy I liked for a few months now has a girlfriend. Le sigh. Oh well, whatcha gonna do? At least I got some good poetry out of it, heh.

In the fires of my hurt,
In the fires of my anger,
In the fires of my jealousy,
I am torn down and defeated
My unerring Witch’s instinct prove true
And oh my heart! It shatters like glass

A wounded lioness, I flee to end the hunt, 
I’ll survive to fight another day
A broken and bloody wolf, I escape the trap
A crow, fleeing inescapable danger, I fly

Shelter I seek, and shelter I find
In the arms of the Scar-Lipped One

The God of Mischief and the God of Trickery
The Destroyer of Worlds
He Who Stands Tall As My World Breaks Apart

A sigh, a breathe,
I know it is Flame-Hair 
Who Will Help Rebuild Me and Make Me Strong
Who will Shatter the rest of my broken heart

And heal the Lioness so she’ll hunt again
Mend the wolf so she’ll run again
And free the crow so she’ll fly again

O Breaker of Worlds
Cast my impurities into the fires of destruction and chaos
So that I may arise, like the phoenix and be forged anew

Oh Flame-Hair, My Guide and Guardian
Guide me ever on the path that my feet doth tread
And lead me towards the Light.
Let your Lokabrenna illuminate my journey and ever be a sign of Your Presence.

All Hail to You, Loki Flame-Hair,
Breaker of Worlds, and Friend of my Heart.

Posted by: isoldeofavalon | July 15, 2012

Sunlight and Shadows (A Devotional Offering to the Eyes of Re)

Oh My Mother Bast,

Lady of the Perfume Jar

Tearer,

Eye of Re,

Solar Fire,

Divine Warrioress

Oh My Beloved Hethert-Sekhmet

Lady of Beauty and Love,

Divine Singer,

Red Lady,

Eye of Re,

Lady of Healing,

Mighty Warrioress

Oh My Holy Aset,

Kingmaker,

Great of Magick

Mother of the Pharaoh Heru-Sa-Aset,

Divine Kite,

Queen of Heaven, Earth, and the Duat

Wife of Wesir,

Daughter of Nut and Geb,

Fierce Warrioress,

Give me the strength to channel my own leonine side;

Let my eyes flash gold,

My skin turned to tawny fur,

Let my nails become claws sharp and strong,

Let Your Solar Strength and Feline Magick infuse me

Mind, body, heart, and soul

Give me the strength and the fierceness to stalk my prey,

Waiting in the shadows,

Eyes of Sand glittering in the darkness

Waiting for the right time to strike

Let the lioness’s courage live in my heart

So that my Ka may shine bright and bold in Your Honor

Let me have the courage to face my fears

And unbind the chains around my heart

So I may walk with a lioness’s pride and grace forevermore…

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