Mary Speaks

Lupercalia, Poetry

When I touched my brow to that bloody wood and cried, “Praise the Maker,” the sky opened up and swallowed a passing comet, a multitude of stars, and all that was considered holy. When I told a lie I tasted the salt spray that painted the harbors of Babylon.

Read the original here on 50 to 1 (as Jessica Otto).

Photo source.

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