The Cycle of Bones

Thousands and Thousands.

Countless ages stored in my bones. Ash compacting.

Tears squeeze out to make room for more.

More sacrifice.

More quiet.

More pain.

I think: the less pain I show the world the less the world will be in pain.

But then I see her.

I see her pain.

And her aloneness, and isolation, and fear.

It is mine too.

I begin to catch her tears

and rather than stuffing them down to the quiet echoes within,

I feel them. They are wet.

I taste them. They are salt.

Her hands open. Two. Side by side. Creating a basin.

Open to receive me.

And the tears they flow.

Without words we see

each others eyes

our rhythmic hearts

feet: bare.

The earth who holds us celebrates our union. Our sacred waters flowing, being caught by the other.

Received. Blessed. Released.

Making their way back to the ocean.


Cycles of bones and blood and tears toss in the waves.

Birth and Death dancing spirals.

And we… we feel the wet.

And we taste the Salt.

size the wave


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