Youthemeus

Because there are few things we can be sure of….

The Unbearable Weight of Truth

Artist unknown

The words which we don’t dare to speak,
Are the words that weigh us down.
The silent words that tell of pain,
Are those that help us drown.

The stories that we cannot tell
Are those that keep us bound.
The things that we can never say,
Will keep us in the ground.

The truths that can’t be said aloud,
Are those that stop our breath.
The sentences that set us free,
Unspoken, hasten death.

The darkness that we keep close by,
In the suffocating still.
The nothing we believe we are,
The void we never fill.

Though in the gloom; a spark! a breeze!
Of something simply kind.
A hand that reaches in the fire,
Bids us leave it all behind.

To tell our truth, to damn those lies,
Is to walk in light unknown.
The freedom that we yearn for now,
Grows the seed that hope has sown.

 

 

©youthemeus 2017

 

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Song of The Earth Witch

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Song of the Earth Witch

My strength, my thoughts, my guile is found,
both in the earth and all around.

With corners called, the towers surround.
My words, my spells with intent compound.

E’en, from my lips my chant doth sound,
Yon circle spins my magic round.

And when my work is all laid down,
I plunge my roots deep in the ground.

The shadows fly, my wishes bound.
So mote it be! Let this resound.

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The Crone and The Keys

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The Crone and The Keys

“You have the keys to life,” she said,
As she sat and scratched her wizened head.
“And I can teach you nothing else,
than just to look inside yourself.”
Deep in her ancient eyes, I saw
Ninety sunsets, maybe more.
The autumn woman, wise old Crone,
Turned, pointing, fingers all a-bone.

“You, maiden! You, mother! You, future me!
The secret of it all, you see,
Is to let love guide your every step.
And treat all Magic with respect.
Your path is long, the climb is steep;
You’ll lose more than you ever keep.
You’ll heal, you’ll grieve, you’ll laugh, you’ll grow.
You’ll need our Craft where’er you go.

But when journeys o’er, and the years retreat.
Be proud, my dear, of a life complete.”
And turning, she pressed her hand in mine,
“Live well, live long – and don’t waste time!”
I watched her rise; her joints complained.
Very little of her light remained.
Then gone she was, no trace to find,
Of that sage old Crone and her infinite mind.

© youthemeus 2014

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