These tears I cry, are not a sign of weakness
But the badges and symbols of self love
Of the strength, honor & loyalty I possess
Virtues you apparently know nothing of.
The black I wear is deep, but not for mourning--
something that clearly was never there
But a reflection of the colors of the wind at MY disposal
In my palette, in my soul, in my air.
The tossing and the turning in my sleep
Are not from nightmares I am trying to flee
But the dreams and fantasies my being is birthing
On their way to full reality.
The mutterings and groanings of my spirit
Are not the curses and hexes warranted
But whispers of growth and stirrings of germination
Of fruition that is coming to a head.
The sigh that escapes me is not melancholy
Though youíve lied, cowered, attempted to debase
Itís the exhale of your poison from defiling My Temple
Self cleansing, self repairing, self embrace.
The slowness in my step is not from pain
Though the wounds inflicted would cause most mortals death
My goddess nature transcends your commonality
Each step increasing my love in depth and breadth
These tears I cry are not for me but you
Trapped in the tangled web so well youíve weaved
You think youíve freed yourself for happiness?
Which of us is truly free, and which of us deceived.