poetry

Mosaic

I killed her again.
Sacrificed her to the mystery.
She ate the sun-
burned to ash on the pyre.
Next morning, she rose with me
like some godforsaken phoenix.

I killed her again.
Drowned her in wine and memories.
She did not float-
she was a witch of course.
She sneaked back through the cracks
in my pounding skull.

I killed her again.
Silver blade like a paintbrush.
Made a mosaic of her,
but she is a fractal-
a worm. Smiling jaggedly in pieces
like a shattered dream.

I will kill her 
every day, in every way
until my own bones are dust.
I will kill her every day, in every life
for every time she dies- 
I rise, and rise.

2 Comments

  • Vall

    Again, such a great poem!! Deep and meaningful, the choice of words are perfect. For me “her” is my alter self living, dying and then rising again in many forms inside… Great work here <3

    • boudika

      Absolutely, we must kill who we were, over and over again in the process of metamorphosis.

      One of my favourite ever quotes is by Peter Carroll (chaos magician): “The only clear view is from atop the mountain of your dead selves.” ? So beautiful. Thank you for reading, thank you for Being!

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