After showering with spiders,
she slips into a red gown,
given to her by the hands of an empowered woman,
a woman who creates her own world,
who slays her sword, arrow in hand,
the fighter of her own battle.
She drops old stories like petals of flowers with false hopes,
letting them go,
such things were never thoughts of her own,
only assumed and taken on in forgetfulness and persuasion:
you are not complete,
broken, tainted, scarred,
more of this,
less of that,
something outside is needed.
A new bag,
a new do,
a new man.
You don’t have answers,
you get them through dreams,
pendulums swinging front to back,
chariots, and maiden of cups,
the hanged man and the devil,
until death comes,
and thankfully, death does come
and a resurrection follows.
No one is going to save her,
and she doesn’t need to be saved.
She is her own knight,
her own consort,
a queen, a fool,
upsidedown and balanced,
a worshipper of her own insight,
a lover of all things,
rooted and sprouting,
no longer buying into,
the idea that she doesn’t have it all.
She does.
She is everything, anything, all things she wants to be.
This world made of her own creation.
Nothing else is needed;
and now its time to give.