We come down the winding stone stairs in two groups of three, hands cupped to steady the splash and flicker of fragrant oil lamps. The deeper we go, the louder the rush and roll of the underground river flowing through the apothecary. Here is where the souls of the Mothers slow for the earthly; here is where appeals to heal scars from ill deeds are most likely granted.
I hold this in my cupped hands,
Stare into its depths.
Red and orange flicker, leap and stab.
Smoky, shifting colors blacken and curl
Its abundant petals. Continue reading
Relieve your pain now.
Go ahead, let go of it.
You’ve held it close in the curve of your belly,
Feeding your resentment,
Your sense of powerlessness,
Until almost nothing of you remains.
Writing and Stuff by Chris Hall - Storyteller and Accidental Blogger
A.I. Art and Poetry
Independent Publisher of Poetry and Prose
Chel Owens
Live music in St Paul Minnesota
pagan songs & tales
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Challenging the barriers of the way we define reality
Stories and thoughts about being a queer girl geek in the 21st Century.
Valley of the Trolls 