“He, who rides a tiger, is afraid to dismount”. – Thea Harrison
July 30, 1982 or centuries ago…
It is a five-hour drive from Whitby to Glastonbury Tor, if the traffic is light, and the winds of good fortune are with you. Worth the drive if you ask me. Worth the time indeed. So much to do while you are there. So much to see especially at night. Especially at night if you dream.
In this moment, she is like an unsatisfied water storm whirling in my mind, and uncontrollable pleasurable orgasm careening undefined. That sweet agony that defies our outer bodies combined. Other times she is inside me, her tongue like an allegory, a legend refined. Wrapping her long, mind around me proving that life will not be with me long. Altogether, she is immeasurable part of a mystic plan. Serving her Lord and her Master, whether a woman or a man. I sleep this night in misery looking for her cause, is she a muse caught in my memory or just a rhyme gone wrong. Maybe I am a searcher for a sorceress drawn in different signs. Maybe I see her naked body summoned out of time. A blue crescent moon on her forehead, a perfect swoop back of her hair. Just a hint of a blue shadow under her eyelid that invites me where. Taking me across many waters, taking me on her own. Stars falling from the firmament, the cold waters how they foam. Swaying circles by a seashore, hearing drums, wrapped up feeling her unclothed home. Knowing you are a witch to my bone. Witch oh which a universe to roam.
Better, you are here with a lady, better you are from the unknown. Stories of you when you were crazy, screaming “roll the bones“. Lower you down just above me, where do spirits roam. Ancient cities explode between centuries. Eyes meet eyes. I moan. Crescents on totems dancing inside the circle of her womb. The stars above me from far away Babylon weaving a loom. Battlefields on her body of a different kind. Tracks telling your history from when Buddug said sweet fairy you are mine. Over and over the sky raining sand, the night upon us in a dream strange land. She breathes it cometh, it cometh where angels ran. She breathes, ride this fifth horseman as hard as you can, and then I see the red moon falling from her raised hand. The red moon is falling from her raised hand.
It is a five-hour drive from Whitby to Glastonbury Tor, if the traffic is light, and the winds of good fortune are with you. Worth the drive if you ask me. Worth the time indeed. So much to do while you are there. So much to see especially at night. Especially at night if you dream. Especially if you dream. – 07.30.2021 – דָנִיֵּאל