It’s clear the words have been buried.
Ice against your bones. Frigid, as we would be called.
But no longer can you deny the truth
Carved into the lines beside your eyes.
Stored in your hips.
No longer can we wait.
Those words are Her remedy,
Would you be too cowardly to heal?
It’s clear the soreness which you wear is a symptom of the soreness in your heart.
A symptom of withholding a tongue lashing to set the pendulum in Her direction,
Swinging us back whence We came.
Away from him.
Your silence would be her slayer.
Meant to learn and teach,
Not to be hidden.
Through your silence he would imagine that no harm has been wrought.
His false righteousness a weight, sunk into your bones,
The gateway to Her Being.
We are his only avenue to Her power.
What would not be revealed can not be revered.
And his shadow has always been opportunistic.
While he rests in blindness,
Our silence comes from the pain
That he would be so satisfied to have won.
The concession of it rubs.
Even after all these years of marching,
How easily he believes himself.
But we are, and always will be, enough.
And he doesn’t really know the root.
Because he doesn’t really know Our truth.
So speak it again.
Kate Varsava is a Halifax, NS based lover of wit, whimsy, and word-play. Late-nights, mid-morning coffee, quiet meditations, and the elements of nature inspire her sentiments and observations.