SPELLS //

No time nor experience is ever wasted. Sad, slow days of homespun souls will always be redeemed.

Boney fingers of the crone weaving at her wheel — knitting you into what you silently beg to become.

barely, breath by breath

by breath

you are transformed

despite the inner siren screams

as you resist the process,

but remember always:

You, child, are the reflection of

many moonbeams —

ever-changing is your nature.

So so so many shifts. Tidal flux expressed as poetic streams: Fingerprints in the sands of time. Intentional transmutations.

Subtly, stitches of who you were, replaced with tests-of-time learning. A purposeful busting at the seams.

Until embodiment is asked of you

& finally you realize

what was, is no longer

more now than ever,

you are esteemed

not by other, but by your very own Self

& nothing is left, but the resonance

of a humble Queen

by Alyssa Troob