Four hundred years later

The General appears

At first taken by her, giddy

He leaves gifts and poetry at her door


Not especially interested, but clarified

She nods kindly, shows him the gate

Her boundary

And sees him on his way


Yet she senses something coming

Murky tendrils weaving, invisible

As he looks back, a subtle leering

Rippling the quantum, rippling


She’s wondering

Whether to prepare or forget

Defense has long worn out its usefulness

She puts

Her sword down


Over time

The notes keep appearing

The gifts somehow making their way

Across the gate, the line


Cloaked in saccharine


She realizes the need

She stands at her doorstep

She waits for him

And when he appears

She looks into his dream-filled eyes

And draws out

Her blade


She clarifies

She slices through

The thick projective miasma

She points its tip at each stake

Of her picket

She calls him

To look


Woozy, smirking

His gaze wafts playfully


He sees it, eyes widening

This gate

As if for the first time

And realizes his slumber


Embarrassed, he steps back

And away

She remains


As his body pivots and strides

Fake confidence towards his city

This time the leer

Has turned cold

Something’s coming

She knows


Next morning sunshine

Greets her

A soft fur winding against her leg

And she walks to the gate, curious

Of the note tacked upon it

She pulls off the memo

And feels its searing

She drops it

Watching it fall to the cool earth


Crouching, wary

She reads the now dampening parchment

Not too surprised to see


Emblazoned upon it

And lengthy explanations

Of her wily ways

Of deceiving and be-spelling


Saddened, she knows him

This General’s story

Of tending his own Anima

Cruel and illusory

Suicidal and death dealing

His own loving

Entwined with the torture he served


This story, it keeps repeating

It is his, it is hers


She pierces the memo

The tip of her sword saves her

She brings the burning accusal

Walking, sword outstretched down the roadway

To a small clearing in the wood


Here a brook babbles

And hawks sing

And she sets a space

And she calls to the wise ones

And she gathers the waters

And she hums


Here, she immerses

The age-old fires

Of trauma, projection and cruel self-story

Into rock’s crevice, holding

Waters trickling from her hands, heart

Waters holding, cleansing for a better way

Washing her past, his

Tending the blood wounds seeking

Mouths hungry to be healed

She offers, she offers

Iron Goddess of Mercy

Iron Goddess of Mercy


She sits

And waits

Letting the sunlight peeking sparkle

Upon the cleansing pooltide

With the pain

And sorrow dissolving within

Knowing her hands, her mind

Indeed offer healing

To re-member

To re-story

To let the old die

To create space

For the new


Hawks circling

Cries piercing the air

Holding her

Sonic, salving the lineages

With their love

She knows not

What may come

Of the General

But dirt beneath her toes

And wind against her skin

She holds clearly

What she knows

She is


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