Old Wounds
fill me with space,
so that I may be the channel.
unfold into emptiness,
touch the collective from the gap left behind as I
peel away the layers;
alchemize each flake into new skin.
flood the channel ways with love,
and see the clearing as old wounds begin to close.
they may burn us
pillage us
rape us
kill us
use us as tools for their own destruction;
they cannot unroot us.
they cannot remove us.
they cannot destroy us.
for in the winter of death are we reborn anew into the spring of hope,
ceaselessly endlessly
we cycle
we spin
we spiral
and weave no worlds and new possibilities.
Written February 2024
Maren Madalyn, Education Freelance Writer & Strategist 