Hear us child, said the bears to the soul
through the rotting leaves and the sage,
The old soul withers, and leans on the wind
and speaks of the moon and its age.
She got lost, in the wooded maze;
following omens and charms,
whispers and promises,
lies and magic, and
She could have dropped crumbs,
mapped her path into the dark,
but the labyrinth held secrets too old.
Creations to unfold.
So she drags all her padlocks and chains,
all her anger and her pain and her wearied
impassioned frailties from
damned turn to damned turn.
Because that’s what she does.
Other promises were made, covenants;
before setting foot into the maze.
Before lowering her gaze,
and pressing on.
And on, and on, and on.