March 13th, Year 22

Draw your sword, God, even if it is out of fashion. I am out of line, and through the portal. This is my humiliation painted white, to save you from discomfort. My nerves twitch and sweat trickles down my brow. This is more than my humiliation, it is my defeat.

 
Would I die for this, or for you? Is this not a perverse kind of death?

I was a fool to search for the will o’ the wisp. A fool to forget I am not a weaver, not an enchantress.

 
I have been spilled, not poured. Grabbed, not plucked. Pushed, not guided.
I am exhausted by you, a thing that flickers and does not provide.
The Divine is nothing but a corpse, that may or may not come alive during the full moon. But, I will make silk out of my remaining goodness.

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March 13th, Year 22

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