You there, careless child, tossing away wishes like pennies down a dark well. You, the woman/girl who sends sparks from her eyes in a wrath of poetry, who gathers storm clouds to her feet with a crook of her finger. The Paragon of caged songbirds, the wanton lover of red cedar trees, the Queen Pandion of Shakespearean sonnets, divine trickster, the jaded maiden, giver of hugs and wrathful truth.
You, who carries a burning torch of flaming pages, who remained un-burnt by the fires of desire that consumed those who basked in the heat. You who taught pain to tender hearts and licked the wounds inflicted. Who offered yourself like a sheep to the knife of prose, sacrificed your past on the altar of midnight. You who wields a pen like a sword, like a chalice, like a lover’s caress in the aching ears of those who listen with their soul.
Both the Lady and the Tiger. The wind that whispers and the stone that squats like Buddha. You are the decay of an old pine tree, becoming a Mother of the forest, nurturing saplings and beetles with the death of your ideals. Yesterday has expired, feeding the soil of tomorrow, and you are the nitrogen that hungry life devours.
You are a metaphor. A paradox. The impossible made flesh, with a contradiction in every breath you take.
I am your conscience, this little blinking vertical line, your new master. I will pull you from the confining womb of notebook lines and structured pages, birth you with a flash of light into the satellite airways. You will burst like a dying star into the darkness of space, seeding other galaxies with your glistening dust, becoming one with all that is, and all that will ever be.
I know you, Lady of Fire, in all the names you have hung upon yourself and the bodies you have worn. I have been here, waiting…