A belated welcome home to My sister, Makali, Goddess of Destruction

Your Cleansing Touch

Some works, some plans, were never meant to be;
For all the heartache, they just can't be fixed,
But only destroyed, the canvas torn free,
The page burned, the paints washed from where they mixed.

With shaking hands the artist unfashions,
Cleaves the wasted clay, scrapes the canvas raw.
Tears of frustration, and darker passions,
Spent uselessly, thrown down upon the floor.

New growth needs clear earth; new building, fresh wood;
Where the old stagnates, the new cannot grow.
Holding on, against all hope, chokes the good.
Burn it all. Wipe it clean. Let it go.

Each failure, each fall, leaves one more scar; dear
Sister, your gift, is the chance to start clear.

Penned by my hand on the 4th of Sarapin, in the year 364 AF.