THE TRICKSTER

The space between good and evil,
The space that makes evil ask itself of its self.
The space that prevents good to be exploited for righteousness.

The witch
with her knowing
The magic
with its wonder

the millions of souls
deemed freaks
for how they related to worlds beyond this world.
for how they loved, for how they reciprocated that love,
the love for beings
and for the forgotten, when one lifetime was constructed as finite.

the millions of souls whose language
became alive, in the wind
found solace, in the water
became, in the soil
and transformed, in the fire
the millions of souls who still cry on the nights of hallow’s eve,
and the souls who fissured into stars.

I reclaim the witch
as my heritage

the scientists on the edge of curiosity and the bounds of love.
the healers with the wisdom of time, life’s time, lives time, knows time as alive.
the warriors of resistance in the face of a monolith
the soldiers of the earth with each passing moon.

the ones that transformed the darkness of fear into fireflies
and alchemized your greed into your derangement.

I reclaim the witch,
my heritage

The language I will never know
The possibility that was never mourned

I reclaim the witch
as my being.