THE ACOLYTE'S DESCENT

“Here is the pit…”

said the priest of the bat goddess.

Pallid, motionless—his countenance obscured, bone-like beneath the veil.

He slowly pulled his hand from his robe and extended his arm to direct his skeletal index finger upon a black void in the earth.

This was the place I thought could redeem me. So he brought me to the mound.

I know I have the choice to stay here, with his teachings, or wait and observe.

Yet I know my feeling in my chest pushes me right over the edge.

I scream out for the many gods I know the names of.

As my fall is not over quickly, it goes on and on.

I lose all concept of time and space.

I can no longer hear my own voice, but I still pray or scream or cry to the pantheon of ages.

And still, I continue to fall…

Nothing reaches for me.

No hand. No call for hope.

No gods are here in this place of illusion.

No gravity.

No mother or father.

Only my undying faith—to be blind and in peril…

I sleep.

As I fall. Or as I stop falling to sleep?

In my dream, I saw a ladder, and upon the ladder was my father.

He had no God.

He had a heart.

A voice of reason…

And when I wake, I realize I have been asleep in a pit, but it is no deeper than a grave.

Yet this pit is also where I have always been, because I chose this—for years, months, or days?

A grave of my father’s father.

An indoctrinated throne of bones and dirt.

Then I say out loud, in hopes that the skeletal figure is still out there, waiting for me…

I say a phrase, something that I thought I could not say…

“I do not know what I do not know.”

Silence…

“‘I don’t know’ is the rope I must use to climb from ignorance,” I yell, in confidence.

Then suddenly, an uncoiled and swift drop of a thick and newly wound cord ascends to me.

I climb, and I smile.

I accept, and I think to myself that I will ask more questions—

before I embrace the fool’s journey into madness ever again.

By Zee Witch, 2025

To The Mountain.

After he died, the rest of my life and environment was consumed by an avalanche of grief. 
Every word and interaction felt threatening and harmful. While the intention may not have been so, I could not interpret this foreign language of love and concern..

The only solace was within the boundaries I began to establish toward those whom I called Friends, and Family. 

Upon doing so, my eyes were opened to my own misgivings and failures. My new found perspective became daunting. Every process became cathartic. Every time I closed my eyes, I was afraid of not seeing the sun again. I was embraced by the cold vacuum of fear and doubt. My insecurity became a hollow beacon that forced me into seeing a harsh and cold reality that I had perpetuated. 

I was a projection of everyone Else's ideas about who I should be. Or who I perceived myself to be through their eyes..

Addiction.
Denial. 
Lies. 
Deception. 
Betrayal. 

Each demon growing stronger and stronger as hours, and days progressed. 

Grief was the gateway to my truth. 

Grief was the reaper of my losses. 

    I thought I lost the purest parts of myself within this deep chasm of depression. 

It took several strangers to awaken the numb limbs attached to my body. 

Therapy.
Decompression.
Admission.
Repentance. 
Forgiveness. 

    I miss you. 
I wish it could have been a different road that lead me to find my truth. 
Your death was the storm that washed away the facade of what I thought was my reality. 

I never wanted to hurt the people who helped me get here. 

In the last year, or in the last decade. 

   It will take a long time to repair and make amends to those people. 

I will have to trust and follow the path that leads me to healing. 

I will have to accept that not everyone will be ready to hear or heal. 

  I have to forgive myself for what I have left in my wake. 


-z

Calendar --

Free Electronic Press Kits from ReverbNation.com

art is subjective

A gallery of faces and not a name to remember.

You place your finger to your lips and look into their countenance.

Your index erect as your thoughts and desires.

Are you working or walking?

You pause, at the pallid and cool spritely expression.

Your gaze wanders to me, and question so much without words.

"How did I never know this?"

A museum of memories and not a future to unfold.

You heave a sigh, and move along.

Just like the other nameless ones.

The gallery is empty.

I never bought a painting after that.

Your Mom is a CrackWhore.

Here's a story, about a lonely baby...

He died.

The End. 

face

I felt the warmth first, and then as I woke I felt a hand over my mouth.
"Shhh!"
This was a man's voice, and all I could see was the silhouette of his head looming over me.
Hand firmly gripped over my mouth, close to my nose, but not enough that I couldn't breathe..
He was holding me still. It felt like his other hand was on my shoulder and his knee was pressed into my hip.
Frozen.

My eyes looked around him at the ceiling, faintly making sense of the room I was in.
A small amount of light came from the window, but it wasn't enough to let me see his face.
I heard a scratching from somewhere else in the room. Three scrapes against the paint, and that's when I saw the face behind him.

Shadowed. Hollow.

Red eyes looking down upon both of us.

Then the red eyes quickly grew larger and that was when I realized it was coming down on us.


And I woke.

Silly

The world used to write secret thoughts in diaries and journals and get upset when people read them. 


Now we write secret thoughts in blogs and online publications and get upset when people don’t read them.