Breanna Morandi
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Writing

She is Calling

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Sometime between midnight and the dawn she wakes and beckons. She coaxes and pulls moonbeams down to thread themselves under the weaving of my lashes and begs me to feast on the pearlescence. She is there, in whispers and then in fervent demand. She tugs at tendrils and presses on rib bones until I submit to the fire that has been cast. She is the gatherer of what has slipped into liminal space, the unifier of the wisps of creative life that have wandered in search of expression. She, the parabolic creative force, arrives to guide gestation into culmination. She cares not for the time of day, and revels in the darkest space of night. She is Shakti in the guise of the childlike wild and the sagely grandmother of the deep knowing, singing long-forgotten songs into the caverns of the heart. 

It is now or it is not at all; rise, absorb and reap. 

She is calling
She is calling
She is calling

Breanna Morandi