Today is the Full Moon and I’ve been pretty antsy today and short tempered. Spiritually, I’m in a dead zone right, disillusioned and apathetic. I know you are supposed to go through these phases but they are happening more and more.
I’m floating around in spiritual ether, not sure at what point I go from here.
I talked to one of my spirit sisters today and was given a glimmer of light in this round of darkness and she did a few readings with her cards today. Swan came up and Fire Passion. Creativity seems to be the key to this bout of disillusionment. Maybe the influx of spiritual energy at Pagan Pride Day Saturday will help me get my creative juices flowing further. But today, poetry came to me today while I was talking to my spirit sister and some of the shadows dissipated from my gloom.
The Swan Song
The world stood still
Balance was within a galaxy’s breath
The swan song rose from the muse’s psyche
Embraced and caressed her
Soft feathers masked the steel beneath the wings
The words laid bare to the world that troubled her
Her depth of sorrow swallowed her distress call.
She climbed up from the ashes
And found the illusion behind the glass
Her fingers clawed at the muddied tapestry of her thoughts
Her swan called, weaving an escape from the shadows.
She listened intently and hoped for the words of her song
To lift her from drudgery.
The sparkle of light danced at the edges of her vision
Pulling her from the dark recesses of her mind
The notes played a rhythm in her ears
Moving with the beat of creation.
She is not there yet but soon
The muse’s magic will overcome her
And begin her journey to spiritual epiphany.
The music will awaken her senses
The light becomes brighter with each step she takes.
The chains of despair will loosen and then break.
Forging a new path to enlightenment.
She waits quietly for that moment to arrive
Her soul’s whisper calling her through the storm.
She will become more in that moment of synchronicity.
She will be who she was meant to be.
So, this is how the muse flows, a moment of melancholy forms the creation of words. Why is that a person must deal with some form of tragedy before their words flow seamlessly? Why can’t you be happy and write? I’ve never figured out that one.
Creativity shouldn’t be formed always from tragedy. Happiness should enter in the picture occasionally.
All I can do is hope for is clarity, a light in the shadows on my mind. I hate being lost in my thoughts and wandering around aimlessly with no direction.
I guess that I all I have for the moment.
As always, I remain