ascian

Beneath each lantern; beneath each tree
blooms each night an irreparable longing
that is often mistaken for terror. 

Perhaps it is merely the heavy silence
whispering,

"Return to me - the place in-between.
Will you not come home?"

Through all the nights of this life,
I have been traveling towards the shadow
second-self, sanity-spelled first {skin}....

a reclamation of the wild creature, scented
musk in liminal spaces, singing of reunion 
and celebrating the mystery of grace. 

To be whole is to be holy more than human.