darkearthsuggestions:

I am weaving my own oaken altar, with incense of pine and a crystal chipped chalice.

I am carving my word branded worship, in old twisted vines and two hands made of callous.

I am humming my high heady hymns, such sweet lilting words of rose-marble and palace.

I am claiming my right to the skies, what’s rightfully mine: a deified balance.