It is a strange thing recognizing the signs of descent and or ascent. It is even stranger recognizing the moment when with one hand She rips the ground from beneath one’s feet while simultaneously with the other hand creates wings. It is liked being plucked from one landscape and dropped into another.
The hang man’s noose becomes the umbilical cord, the womb from which is birthed a new world. The fated landscape is a tomb painted in the blood of the past, murals of every step upon this thorned way. Ladled therefrom the stars are poured out into a heavenly crown towards which the antlered tines of the oak yearn to draw lips to lips.
What to do? What to do?
Continue to Craft, that is all one can do.
“Lost in a thicket bare-foot upon a thorned path.”