Thank you to the efforts of the dead or currently aching, who wrote in their times of possibility, instead of exploring the various ways the dead can be living.
I wonder at all the caves of disparity and confusion that exist beyond my own ancient network.
We suffer especially from being led astray: past grottos of glimpses of prizes into yet another stinky bog of unpaid exhaustion.
We hold death’s warty hand unknowingly, because the touch is familiar and appears steadying,
and art is the only medicine for operative removal:
One passage of Angela Carter releases its grip;
One phrase of William Blake casts the demonic clutch forevermore;
One story of Margaret Atwood teaches us of the methods for revenge;
Then, one passage of our own buries it deep under lively soil.
And in its stead, we are free to roam amongst creation as creators,
An occupation we must claim defiantly me as our predeceasing Giants graciously accomplished.
Thank you to the gods of words, love, air, night, mystery, wallowing, and song.
I buried my death in the alley last week and will never again feel wrong.
Written by Sarah C Louise
Sarah C Louise 