Saturday, November 20, 2010

My Cup Runneth Over

whisper through the trees
and whisper throu-ough me,
whisper in my mind,
take the gale, take the grind,
and the wind will set you free.

hold your ground and hold the sky,
hold the chalice and the rye,
(to the Goddess I do make
and worship She will take;
all others need not apply)

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