The Lair

The Lair

I buried the ashes of the leviathan that day,
turned my back to the barrera de sombra
with their burnt roots of gnarled trees.

Into the eyes of the picador who thinks I am a moth to his red flame
he vainly twisted about trying to disguise so to regain his honour
in sensing a change in the cards we have been dealt.

Of stillness I face my primordial shadow so I can go
without, into the wilderness
as the butterfly to the stonecrop.

I hear the call of the loon vibrating in the ring
and as the bear readies for hibernation
the wolf moves her cubs from the den.

That is my lair sighted in the low, dawning quere
as the mist recedes and my wild is freed
into a mythical meandering.

Still I falter in the remnants of this monster
a haunting, disquieting mara
determined to disrupt my refuge with his red cape.

But I take shelter in the nascent, pure verse
beyond the pale of those superficial lives
a place the leviathan is no longer the pied piper.

My bull taps into a different power
an energy to potency where symbols awaken
through the indigo sky—a homing dance to Otherworld.

At peace now knowing the wall isn’t red
and the ground isn’t trampled
but moss-laden and the sky isn’t wood but cerulean.

I don’t want flowers in this sacred pause in the sands of time
only to lay open, with my hands face up in the truth
a querencia lair of lavender and bergamot under the bodhi tree.

~ namasté, Leah J. 🕊

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