Steaming Kettle (07/27/2020)

I gather pinches of various herbs and flowers from their various jars and packets.

My mood today is out-of-body; distant and detached.

I open the tap, filling the fat hollow of my kettle with the cool water of the well.

My days have been blending together in a slow rush of sunrises and sunsets.

I have cravings that can never be satisfied.

I smell my earthy fragrant mixture, stimulating something deep within me.

Lavender blossom, chamomile, raspberry leaf, rosehip.

Valerian root, orange peel, sage, mint.

Most from my own garden.

I need something: a physical touch. Intimacy.

Violent passion and passionate violence.

I watch the honey drip from my spoon and pool in the bottom of my mug,

Which reads “Pretend this cup is the skull of my enemy.”

Gods, what would it feel like to be a warrior again?

To know the feel of a man again.

To bathe in blood, instead of the crisp waters of a spring.

I use an old shortsword to stoke the embers inside the old wood burner,

As my kettle finally begins to whistle and scream.

The boiling water in my mug creates intense clouds of scented floral vapors,

The taste of which does something to clear the fog of my mind.