Entering the Chapel of the Forest…

All around me are angry wolves...

All around me are angry wolves, who challenge me to solve their individual wounds. How do you speak to an injured animal? When whatever you say is seen as a threat, observed through a lens of fear, a shapeshifting forminator turns white into black.

Fear is the fuel that feeds the fire of an illusion. Is it simply a game? How does one wring the bell of anxiety’s bullseye where winners become losers who clutch their pearls and declare their pain as a badge of honor.

“How dare you not to align with my grief. I am the queen of pain, there are only allies allowed within.”

Meanwhile over at Tom’s Saloon, the boys are watching a poker-table wizard dealing and drawing cards at warp speed. It’s a game of archetypes, boot kicks delivered beneath the table. There is no referee greater the civil warriors who line the streets taking potshots at each other.

Into the mix walks Archangel Michael, a golden guardian, bulletproof. In one hand he holds a lance, while the other arm is raised high above holding a burning torch.

“I am radiant love coming from within and without. Nothing can harm me nor resist the waves of wellness I project forth. My light heals the sick and can raise the dead. But I too, am just an archetype.

How does someone rise from the ranks to ascendant wealth? 
Where are stars born and winning hands won? 
And who is left to sweep the floors after the war,
to bury the dead and count their losses?

Where are the winners, the ones who play their luck?
Is it all just a game of wonder, 
another Ford to fix
in the greasy garage on Main Street USA?

Free Parking or Go to Jail, round the board we roll.
Pass Go, collect $200, the game of life goes on.
A tisket, a tasket,
she lost her yellow basket.
Olly, olly, oxen free.