Every morning I wake before dawn to brush away the demons and angels that have accumulated through the night, the ones that follow in my wake, my albatross, my mutated cross.
Broken oaths, bad blood, blood bonds and divine protections, wanted and unwanted, some intentional, some still unseen, but all felt daily, and not only by me.
So in darkness or twilight, without malice, but maybe with a slight post-penance regret, I sweep out the cobwebs and push them back at bey and clear the way for the coming day.
Even so and as I do, they’ll regroup and re-approach while waging their battle over my soul and my deeds, one side bound to protect, another sworn on blood to destroy.
And they do, and though I sway with the battle, these days I’m able to maintain and wake early in the morning, clear out the dead and those hiding.
Say the words, draw the signs, make the gestures the ghosts and the land taught me and clear the way for another day in this contested space, this place where the river turns.