Forever

“Forever” When The Terrors came, The Uncontrollable Ones, she closed her eyes and listened for the notes her mother had planted amongst the deep blues, beds of Forget-Me-Nots, she followed the labyrinthine trail and through a gate unhinged, it would seem destroyed, thrown aside, she came upon a safe sweet secret spot of mysterious circling, oak, ash and thorn, where banished keys dangled glistening like jewels, dripping wet red, red as ruby red apples, the scent metallic crisp and green off the leaves of dark mourning forest trees, they sounded like magick, like jangling symbols, faery chimes, haunting, heralding softly her arrival. Autumn approached like Halloween silently unobtrusive, camouflaged in all her muted glory, colours of a woman not child, courageous, alert, calculating, like a noble warrior queen welcomed as much as Winter, to the unknown shores of some faux kind foreign territory, ominous, yet somehow harmless, benign, her bare feet felt the ground humming - there she, scrying through the sound reflection of tears, muddied puddles, invisible footprints appeared visible, she filled the imprints with the fair skinned signature of her own and there, she followed the labyrinthine path quite quiet, all alone. Instinctively, not logically she followed the maze the Smythsewer had sown, creating a strong spine for her, a Jacob’s Ladder sewn from the bones of the wayward Troll’s back from his old body, the one before prison entombed him, where once long ago, his shadowy handsome youth, he called Home. There, at the highest point of the path found she, threaded through the roots of a singular White Rose its thorns weeping tears bleeding blood red words red as the reddest red rose, scores of a story marked 3 on parchment ancient and old, a token foreseen and foretold. She felt through the heavy blankets of moss, patchworked with runes some might call stones, never rocks, turned the graveyard soil, digging there with her blistered bruised fingers, without any qualms ruthlessly removed nails effortlessly from the claws of howling dead hounds, all of them Baskervilles, piercing notes twisted, scorched by the ghosting gas-lighters now short for words, gasping, all shallow-drowned, eventually all muted, unheard, tortured unfound. There, in that spot, she touched underneath all of that filthy dank rot, there, she felt and she heard, the pure heart beating, war torn yet warm, living still, buried deep, wearing truth, n'er superficial it breathing life, yet still, life crying to be taken, fulfilled. Under jade chains of ivy, the golden chord wrapped itself around the lost girl, pulling her ever closer inwards, there she looked with her mind through the cool shaded lens of her soul, somehow familiar, possessing this very odd world, reflecting, absorbing the prophetic signs, new pages of a book which she must feel to listen to see, to touch true design, all the stories in the here and now opening miraculously through wayward warped time. There, blooming alienated she scried, Sahasrara Padma, a rare lotus flower, a thousand petals unnumbered magenta and ultra violet hues, borne from the colour white, pure and white as the beauteous full bodied moon - the phantom breeze dispersing the petals, begin to turn all the torn pages to stories forsooth! opening never-ending Fibonacci doors ad infinitum, not sonnets, nor villanelles, more complex and crazy like never-ending curs'ed persistent pantoums - yet not. She was discovering, like treasure, notes wrapped in mysterious music, new unopened routes to escape through, fault lines opening lux vitae discourse for all her fractured muses hermeneutic - from their pulpits they appeared to be not stagnant, but unnatural and eerily moving, passing through the In-and-Out doors, transformative and gruffly impugning. When The Terrors came, The Uncontrollable Ones, she closed her eyes and listened for the notes from the White Rose her mother had planted under jade chains of ivy amongst the deep blues, beds of Forget-Me-Nots. It was there, Her angels appeared guardians all around her shimmering like mirrors, opening arms of protection she could fold into, wings to murder The Terrors, bury all The Uncontrollable Ones, all her murderous darlings, rest her weary heart all her thoughts all her words, dissolving, yet a part of it all, interred in this world, to sleep soundly forever lay down her shield and her sword, gift the other her heart, gift the other her bleeding red shoes, occulent keys, her grimoire words. (Ladylabyrinth / 2021) gvlm “Under the Ivy”/Kate Bush https://youtu.be/GVG31STTu68 “This is what I believe: That I am I. That my soul is a dark forest. That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest. That gods, strange gods, come forth from the forest into the clearing of my known self, and then go back. That I must have the courage to let them come and go. That I will never let mankind put anything over me, but that I will try always to recognize and submit to the gods in me and the gods in other men and women. There is my creed.” Lotus https://www.tribuneindia.com/news/archive/lifestyle/lotus-of-a-thousand-petals-707133 https://www.binghamton.edu/iaad/outreach/Meaning%20of%20the%20Lotus%20Flower%20-%20%20handout.pdf White Rose https://www.goldflorist.com/pages/White-Rose-Meaning.html Forget-Me-Nots https://gardenerdy.com/what-do-forget-me-not-flowers-symbolize/ b. 18.9 d. 18.9 Smythsewer/Smyth-Sewn https://www.strathmoreartist.com/faq-full-eu/what-is-smyth-sewn-binding-719.html The Red Shoes https://youtu.be/rbbPPy_bNM4 3 https://www.bookofthrees.com/the-symbolism-and-spiritual-significance-of-the-number-three/ Cymbals/Symbols Ruins/Runes Foe/Faux Sown/Sewn Magick