On the Mountain

I am not perfect

Ever between worlds. 

I have washed my hands in the many black sins, liquids that eat and tear down our minds. 

I am scared and coping inexhaustibly 

As words sink in; 

I'm running from a gas already caught me. 

Delicate and frayed, is there any way I can be loved without indeed martyring myself? My ears ring. 

My heart gets wet and tears leak, dot .. 

  Drip. 

Inexaustably weak, 

I must stand on my own two feet, compounded chest caving, and that girl rising the best she can, has been taught, 

She will never be loved, the way she had deserved; 

And so, as youth dies with me, in me, as me, my bloodied death, a body 

As my inner child weeps, for a last time on her knees. 

This child does not know the mommy to whom she dies against, for they are incarnate souls...

And they didn't have a chance to fully re-connect. 

Her mother will always be more brilliant in her 5 year old eyes, 

Than the teenager in her, ever knew she'd be. 

I stand now. 

At the Rubicon. 

In me, is indeed the deathly hollow, of such the fate, that is before us now; 

So and so much, 

Is at Hand. 

I would fall in love, and watch the world topple if I knew it would bring me peace. 

The same I would fight til I die, if it meant peace for another. 

The notion of Sacrifice is a Long-Human wound; it is both, still prevalent, and one of many archetypical seasons of the tarot, which reflect the many passages of life, and "initiation" cycles. 

I tremble. Nerves a little rigid. Can't escape fast enough from the crumbling away of society, 

As I keep watch, 

And wait to ring the bell.