The Sibyl By Dorothy Walters

The Sibyl

Everything on this journey
is destined, though unplanned.
What you call my madness
is the food of my life.
The silvered mesh
between the worlds
doesn’t really exist for me.
I never go over.
I am there already.
It is easy, like parting a sheen of water,
an animal floating in arcs of color.
How familiar they are,
these inner musics,
these currents of desire.
It is the other part that is difficult.
The coming back.
The not being able to tell.

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