By Shannon Crossman POETIC JUSTICE

When A Wild Heart Calls You Home

SC THE URBAN HOWL

By Shannon Crossman

Heart.
Heartbeat.
Beat.
Beat heart.

Small God of my chest.
You keep time better than any clock.
Mark the moments of a being in soft thrum through veins and organs.
Yet, you are more than this mere giver of life.
You are the thing that whispers love in my ears.
Guides me in the direction of whom or what to love and when and for how long.
Thinnest tongue of truth cleverly hanging in your thoracic cage behind sternum’s shield.
When I listen to you not, I suffer.
May as well bleed rivers onto the sidewalk.

Heart.
Heartbeat.
Beat.
Beat Heart.

I once tore my life up by its roots at your behest.
Obeyed your call to severe and cut and run blades through everything.
Until I was unfettered and free as the day I was born into this skin world.
Naked and suspended by hands foreign, yet friendly to me.
Now you are calling for me to split and shatter my existence again,
so something new might bloom.
A thing you whisper of obliquely, with no clear promises.
Only soft dropped hints of something more.
Sweet temptation rolling off your silvered red tongue.
Blind trust a prerequisite to proceed.

Heart.
Heartbeat.
Beat.
Beat heart.

I am your weary warrior.
Staggering and disheveled.
Would rest, yet you scream run.
So I gather up my aching bones and propel them into motion.
Because I trust the whispers.
Heed your instinct toward my truest North.
Promise to wander for eternity if you ask because I know you better than anything.
Not once have you steered me wrong when I’ve taken the time to understand.
When I’ve managed to resist rushing off half-cocked.

Heart.
Heartbeat.
Beat.
Beat heart.

Happy is the color of your stillness.
Grace, the meat you feed me by tender spoonfuls until I grow round and fat.
Love, the slippers you shelter my feet inside as I wander your path.
Ease patterns every garment you drape upon my body.
Fear, you beat back with bamboo and spiky bramble.
Driving it into submission so that I might flow like an atmospheric river.
Rising and shifting across the landscape of all that I Am.
This is how it is with us. You lead. I follow.
I follow. I follow.

Heartbeat. Beat. Heart.

For more self-study, The Urban Howl recommends 52 Ways to Live a Kick-Ass Life: BS-Free Wisdom to Ignite Your Inner Badass and Live the Life You Deserve.

Sip a little more from Shannon’s magic:

At The Edge Of A Breakdown: The Beloved Self Awaits The First Glimpse Of Wakefulness

Rise Fragile, Fierce Woman

Love: Cross Your Courageous Ass Over The Threshold

Lost Girls Are Forever Finding Themselves

Show Me How You Get Back Up — Reveal Your Glitter & Grit

Burn It All Down & Rise: The Magic Of An Awakening Woman

 

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Shannon Crossman

Shannon Crossman learned the hard way that untapped creative energy casts a helluva shadow, so she crafts her sanity with her hands daily. Nothing excites (or frustrates) her more than a blank page, fresh ball of yarn, or pile of foodstuffs - all waiting to be transformed into bits of deliciousness. Words are, and have always been, her way back home. She is a writer, artist, technical wizard, public speaker, witch, priestess, gluten free baker, time-bender, and COO who happens to possess a degree in Transpersonal & Somatic Psychology. She's a mama and grandma to a gaggle of wild girls who make her heart happy. When she's out in the business world she's figuring out how to make things faster, more efficient, and automating the hell out of sh*t. Shannon still believes in magic, craves the ocean like a land-locked mermaid, and dreams of a life without shoes.

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