They do not tell you the Dead will ride you so far
You will almost join them, you
half-alive, standing between meaning
and meaning, the stuff you purchase
and the stuff that matters.
They do not tell you, but then you know
the dead who ride you matter, and so
you listen, here, in sleep and waking
and on-coming cars that aren’t your death and
warriors and villains and blood-soaked earth.
Her death, and your life, flowing out
where later weeds take hold, and flowers
remembering what others forget, remembering
what others could not hear, there,
between stone and stone and earth.
They do not tell you you shall die their deaths
Nor what you will become, still living
half sleeping, half waking, blooded
vessel flowing over from rim,
to stone
to now.
Rhyd Wildermuth 
Oh my heart.
Selah.
Reblogged this on Gangleri's Grove and commented:
This is one of the most powerful poems about ancestor work that I have ever had the privilege of reading. THIS is exactly what it’s like for some of us. THIS.
Reblogged this on Sable Aradia, Priestess & Witch.
Augh, my feelings. Weighed down with secondhand pain and having one foot in the grave is a rough state of being, and a hard one to describe. But here we are, and you’ve managed it. Well done, bard.