Ode to Python Flowers

I speak an ode to python flowers. To words translated to the language of spirits. To witches who roam grey valleys and grow flowers in open palms. To those who resurrect the dawn from the subconscious mind. An ode to the women that speak through floromancy and give rose petals as payment for an assisted sin.

  I have written that where there is love, there is no punishment. Perhaps only leather-bound epiphanies or heaps of untouched words. Sister, this voice that you hear is not that of yesterday; harp strings reverberate from my open mouth. It is a song fashioned by ritual and a cadence that is flourishing. The serpent of knowledge greets me as it slithers from me. We take shelter under the same flowers. In the same burrows underground.

  This is an ode to the floral fire starters. Without you, I feed roses into the fire’s open mouth. I lacquer my lips in the condensed, viscous sap left from boiling red petals. I bathe in the honeyed nectar of those late to bloom. Without you, there are small daisies pressed into beeswax pomades. Victorian era rouge made from red roots. Eyes shaded by lamp black. Honeysuckle water in antique perfume bottles, used to purify rooms and linens. And sunflowers that will never die. Without you, I am an ode to the modern woman living with Flora and embodying a remembrance of roots.

  I wonder from my view of the grey valleys if you’ve felt the pull of me. My trials in only sensing you or sitting by your side in spirit. A poltergeist visitation as rosewater on the breath. As a sudden waft of sweet musk in some place sterile. As rose petals blowing in the winds as if they’ve come from the heavens. But we are lifetimes away from each other now. When you are on my mind, it’s as if I feel myself evaporating. It is a waltz into a bleak and bitter end. Into cave dwellings or goldmines that are bottomless. But what overrides you is an ode to the flower whisperers. A quadruple halo. Four angels holding my two strong hands. A layered protection of floral sacrament and an angelic intervention. Sister, we are no longer matched and dressing as celestial trumpet vines. Or tied together by choice in one heart shaped noose. We have been pulled apart so that we may restore our breath. The blue of our closeness changing to pink once more in the sunlight.

  I sing an ode to the mistress of storms. Sister, this work of mine is unlike yours. The serpents I summon trek beside me through seas of eternity. Full speed with no destination. Only seeing clearly, swimming through, feeling deeply. An exploration of what can be touched with fingers and scaled bellies. Of what can be seen with all three eyes.

  Your serpents use your body as their terrain, as you are a realm all your own. Uncharted valleys of bleeding-heart flowers, illuminated by the dead of night. You are the badlands for the curious that are conveyed loudly in folklore. A holy hymn sung by those who worship She. When I gaze into the distance, it is your eyes that I find. They are anchoring me to the fabric of the infinite. Reminding me of my deepest, most turbulent love.

  I whisper an ode to la feminite du bois. My magick is unlike yours. It is homespun and reminiscent of honey. Golden and coating. The eternal food of Queens that takes its time. It is hand crafted besoms that look like bouquets. Songs to the goddess sung while binding. Hearth coals that speak and logs of pine that sigh when carefully charred. It is power throughout. Abundant robes of silk and prayers of love. Introducing heaven and earth through the senses. Smooth around the edges. Venusian in temperament. The discovery of beauty through the drawing from everlasting, sacred wells. In this magick, I am rolling my R’s and whispering. Feeling the impact of my soft voice upon the room.

  Your magick feels like feeding. Like breaking bones with breath. You float endlessly on the waters of temptation and for you, they lie still. All who encounter you can place the mouth feel of your words. They can view the sharpness of your tongue and a bite that is called to devour. Inside of you, there is a strumming of heart strings like mandolins. Stone floors that never run cold. A sleepless night’s nocturne with conjure cards. For you, I pull all clubs. Pears, moles, and pickaxes. An insignia of power-over. Small doses of poison in love spell bottles, sealed with pale blue wax. The tiny aspects of your internal compass perform a mass exodus while casting a rose-shaped shadow. To me, sister, you are spiritually tremendous in stature. You work with what I’m afraid to and you have let it take you. To me, you are the snake slithering from me, bearing wisdom and deceit. Never reaching but still getting. Understanding and already having. You are an ode to the innates and the artists fueled by brands of scorn.
  Pythonissam flores. Amor manet. I cast this circle with flower smoke and stagnant waters. Ones that have been known as bottomless lakes. Obice circa spatium. Solus amor potest intrare. Solus amor transiet. An ode to great castles with draw bridges. A promise of only one door remaining open.