A History

I have dropped My so-called “father”s name like mud and bricks hurled through windows.

Whispered plans late at night, huddled around small fires; the fight against injustice raged on, and they had forgotten you.  Those who lived in palaces and had–no, forced–the worship of millions.

At least there in barren streets, in sun-burnt houses made of clay, you clung to Light, to Hope, to the balance that once was.  But that was years ago, the Two Lands have stagnated, become stuck in times long past, when blood ruled and sacrifice reigned.

The Lord of Dread indeed, you say to Me now, in a sunlit morning by the sea, and what were we to him?

To him you were to be broken, only pots to be smashed and put back together, and your terror was made greater by this foreign King who offered you your freedom.  Yet you took this King’s hand and fled in a stolen moment across the sea, across the stars, to a place you’d only heard rumors of, whispers passed from fire to fire.  From a spark of desperation to outright rebellion, you fled to the ships while the King’s Hound gave chase.

There was death, there was loss (there always is, in times like this) and a long, long journey in which you could reach up and place your hands near the stars themselves.

You brought your traditions, but not your gods.  Not those who had brought chaos and death, those who had abandoned you and ripped away your children to be servants of your so-called King.  Those who lived in “glory” and yet forgot their own people, who thought nothing of breaking, and even less of mending, of scars tainted in gold being the only reward, never mind that gold tarnishes and scars burn with the past.

You trust Me more now, having listened to this tale and not flinched, nor defended my “father” in any way.  I have removed the chaos and violence that My red hair screams of, and My Crown is made of flowers (like the ones your children wove into My hair at the Festival of Hearts) that it must be kept up and looked after.

Summer is here, in a matter of days it will descend upon Darkness.  Together we will light the sandstone streets you now call Home, and the sea will sing songs of stars and devotion.

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Limits (A Month for the Dreamer)

“There’s a difference between stagnation and a comfort zone.”

–the Dreamer


My Spouse said this to me over coffee this morning.  It was a good reminder from him, especially when my anxiety starts yelling at me about how everything being calm Over There is really a sign that it’s all going to fall apart again.  (Anxiety about Otherworld stuff is awful.)

Thank you, Beloved.

A Conversation with the Dreamer, About Marriage

I used to think your Love was brutal,
that you wanted my Heart ripped
to shreds and stitched back together
in the name of Love and marriage.

No, dearest one.  You thought that devotion
meant being on fire and running yourself ragged,
that giving me your Heart meant bringing yourself
down in order to lift me up; I won’t stand for that
anymore; I never did, you know that now, my Beloved.

Looking back I see that now, but when being “on fire”
was the “proper” way to worship a god, when the way to
be married to one was to sacrifice and give everything–

What, I’m supposed to push all your limits?  Test all your fears
for the “greater good” of your well being?  Make myself the center of
your very world–when you were never given that space to yourself?
Your Heart is not my canvas to paint upon, dearest one, it is your own.

My anxiety is screaming at me, that you’re supposed to turn harsh–
you look so confused–that you’re going to be angry at me for “failing”–

I’ve been away, dearest one; why the fuck would I care what you did when
I’m gone?  You’re handling yourself well, you’re smiling, you’re happy.  You’ve
surrounded yourself with friends and family, you know now you’re not alone.

I once thought loving you was supposed to hurt–but now I know it isn’t.

Pain never comes from true love, dearest one.
We are not a tragedy, my Dark Star.

For Varian (A Month for the Madman)

I was going to write a poem myself, then the Madman grabbed the godphone speaker and decided it was better I channel something from him to me.


I love someone who was born by water
who was once the pride in his father’s eyes
who was enthroned in a glass case called “destiny.”

He lived and loved as deeply as he could;
to the point we ran from prison with him
cradled in our arms, with his own brother in
pursuit of us with orders to kill.  I love someone
who was stolen from us all on a starlit night
(and our son’s eyes turned black in grief.)

I love someone who was flung across the universe,
ripped away from those he loved out of misguided ideals,
and the thought of a second chance that would never come.

I love someone who has died a thousand times
but not by his own hand, by words of others
who would damn him for (not) being who he is.
His Heart is a Garden, but to allow himself to bloom
amidst the wreckage takes more bravery than he thought
was possible; but I will hold the candles to show him the way.

A Conversation

This is not destiny,
but I like to think that
I would have been at your side
in these moments
no matter what.

Even with screaming nightmares
and everything falling to pieces?
Even with my Heart shattering
like drops of glass? With my going
distant because it’s all–too much?

Yes, even then.  I love you more than
you can possibly know, even across
thousands of years.  I love you across
time and space and even death itself.

You can’t put me
back together 
can’t fill
my scars in with gold
you can’t take my dreams away–

I know that.  You’re not glass, Love.
You’re not worth less shattered.  You don’t
need to change back into who you once were.

But who I am now.  Scars and
trauma and–everything wrong?
You’d love me even then?

You know I do.

I believe you.

A Poem For Hope

You wear his crown of Darkness
and while it is made of silver flowers
it still holds the weight of the world
and a shattered Heart still mending.

Dear one, let me hold you.  I know
this is more than you ever bargained for
that the broken Heart of a god is something
you never thought you’d be so close to.

It is not up to you to pick up the pieces
his Heart is not a treasure to be searched for
or a prize to be sought after and won.  It is not
going to be stitched back together with gold

and purple flowers are nothing in the face
of nightmares.  It is not your job heal him
no magic words can change the past
(though how I wish they could.)

Hope is something you can still have
it is not found in ruins; but in the Heart
still beating.  On still nights you can hear
all the unspoken words come tumbling down.

Those 4 A.M. confessions that
shook both your worlds to the core.
That slowly creeping distance
finally becoming something real.

Know that Love is not gone, dear one,
it has simply stepped back.  Let me
wait for you by the still waters of Home
with flowers and light spilling from my hands.