Broken Things
There is a silent weeping across the land,
an epidemic of loneliness and fear that grips the heart tightly,
that binds the soul,
that chains the human spirit to transient things-
fake, brittle badges worn too proudly.
A house stays empty,
never becomes a home because a male never became man.
Because he doesn't understand that giving is receiving.
The ethereal gift of womanhood, femininity withers, never blooms,
never births creation because a woman is unable to trust, to fall into the divine masculine-
her provider, protector.
Because she is afraid to believe-
that giving is receiving.
Broken, broken things we are.
Living empty lives filled with things that rust and collect dust,
Feeding ourselves lies,
to the day we die.
