sword.

it is a funny thing to feel the spirit rise
when the muscles and bones of the house are leaning slack
and weathered from a
season of electric wind and dry, thick rain.

I've been waterlogged by the drought of tribe,
left wandering under stars I've never met.
An acid smoke rises into my eyes, my feet are damp with wreckage.
Here, in this small arc I draw with my empty hand, is the old me burrowed into the hearts of ghosts.
I believed you and in you, carved a nest.
Now, this hand, fixed with a wet, metal blade stands over a wooden landscape of hard truth.
There is a time to let go. There is a time to say no. There is a time to rise and roar and walk away from all those things that reach in to hurt us, to diminish our light, to cripple our soul and ask us to shoulder the wickedness of a room gone black. There is a time to stand still, to let fall our arms, to give up the reaching for those things that forget us, that say we are too much, that fail to feed our hunger or water our thirst.
around me, the circumference of trials still smolders.
I say goodbye to this territory of mistaken allies and walk patiently through the wilderness.