And The Majesty

One day

Many days

I created things with my words.

Things that changed me and changed other people.

Things of absolute beauty.

Things of stunning connectivity and yesness.

These words crafted evidence of my divinity.

They proved that I was brilliant. In black and white for all to see.

For me to see.

To which I could point over and over again in defense of my everything.

See? There it is! I did that. I made that.

All these things are works of art that make me real and right.

And gave me firmament. A staked claim upon Justified.

Bona fide.

To these things I would cling as if they were so precious, so one of a kind, so impossible to replicate,

For indeed they took my breath away

In natural wonder that such wonders could come out of me.

Out of one so suspect.

Out of one so convex.

But Truth.

It was in the clinging, the clutch, the craving to marvel in perpetuity that I ceased to grow.

Ceased to know.

Ceased to show.

And so these things

These splendid things

wrought of my love, my despair,

my ache and gnaw and claw,

My triumphant hold upon the tails of dragons and demons and fairy god-witches,

They became no less brilliant

no less spectacular

but nonetheless caused a stunting of growth in the wake of all their acclaim.

A backup. A strangulation.

And so I had to burn them to the ground.

In one blaze. Everything into the fire.

No keepsakes, no posterity; everything into the fire.

All proof of glory and worth and giftedness into the flames until it was gone.

Ashes and void.

Smoke and absence.

And then I had to stand there without any of it


and see and feel and claim anew

everything I believed about me before I started the fire.

And new words followed.

And I remembered that woman with black hair

Facing down an army of reproach.

Who from her castle wall

called all

eyes upon her and then lifted her dress to show the naked place between her legs.

And she screamed

That she had it within her power, by her very design and birthright, to create not just human life but all the magic

and the majesty

Of human life manifested tenfold within her issue

All without a castle

and without a kingdom.

And I remembered that like her

The power of my words lies not in the edifice that they were once written

But in the continuance of their renewal.

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