Daat
The energy center which rules creative gifts, mostly having to do with language.
The invisible Sephira,
Which unites all the rest;
The hollow inside the Tree of Life —
A singing Owl’s nest.
Infusing the words with moonlight,
It mirrors one’s darkest Self.
Those reflections are the poet’s might—
The monkey-slayer, the Elf.
Either lavender-purple
Or the summer afternoon blue
It rules creative surges,
The need to express what’s true.
For reality is not what one thinks—
That’s but the warped Qliphotic mundane.
The Tree of Life may me seen in Dreams,
Longing for its fruit can make one insane.
The substitutes are many but the only one is real,
Available through arts to help the souls heal…
Or deadly it can be if the gift is sold short
For tacky demands of the living dead’s world.
10.11.22. N.B.
About the Creator
Nica Breeze
I started writing fairy-tales before I could spell the letters right, at age 6. My fiction and poetry are about one’s private world and love-hate relationship with reality.
I emigrated to America from Eastern Europe, found home in Montana.
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