Every now and again burgundy trickles between my thighs,
An onslaught of full-body inexplicable tickles arise.

Periodically, I am summoned to the cave where optimisation has no place.
Although not the miracle of its conceptional inverse;
It’s just as important to maintain the human race.

Then why, oh why, does it generate such shame?
Haters, “Creators”, say it’s just pain.
Its’ crunchy, and crampy and dampens the mood.
Yet a swirl in my crux, nudges me to reframe.

There’s nothing wrong,.
It’s not a curse.
Though tears may burst,
No need to call the hearse.

It’s guidance,
Self-reliance,
Inside-us,
It’s knotted instruction,
Serving a function,
Of gnosis.

Lyrical-waxing; drama-making;
Energy-waning; inner-lion-taming;
It all divvies up a savage reminder,
Of the power within.
And surely its regular enough to not totally blindside us.

I firmly believe
It is a harbinger of abeyance
Necessary and well-placed
In our unchained yang realm so-paced

That in mind:
Surrender to the torpor
Become a force of nurture
Your patience may be truncated
Trigger-unhappiness inevitably fated
But let thee go inward.

Good crimson tidings it brings,
Listening, coming adept at the depths
And the fine-tunings of things.

Menstruality too will pass,
And even (maybe) be missed some day.

So splendour (or languish) in the fecundity of this cycle,
The choice is yours,
As your womb tangles & untangles.

Ruminate on inner mapping until another direction instated,
The silver-garnet-lining is that while your less insulated,
Awareness is ripe, and flowing,
All related to this shedding.
Despite the frustration of stains on your bedding.

The low is allowed,
The most divine wallow,
Cosmic portal laid fallow,
Sensual arrest,
I am a holy mess and I am (w)holiness.
I digest
And I rest.

No.2 27/9/22