the witch is in [any]

[Nyxia]

my friend makes rings, she swirls and sings
she’s a mystic in the sense that she’s still mystified by things

She is as attuned to rifts as any. 

She has walked through many of them – through time and life and consciousness – tattered edges of physical and scientific fabric, yawning open like great jeweled mouths. Hungry. They are always hungry when they open, sucking in deep for whatever they can catching in their drifts.

She drifts now, as she always does, in an aimless fashion. Searching. Wandering. Passing by things escaped from rifts – multicolored bears and flute-voiced pangolins – that crowd the outer edges of her vision. She does not notice the way she begins to lean-to, carried by a wind or caught by a hook she cannot see. 

This rift pulls gently, it does not run her as that biting winter had – it calls her with the soft voice one would expect mist might have if could it talk, singing lullabies as it lifts in front of her weary, senseless nose.

She does not notice she is here, until she does.
She lifts her pretty, destroyed head, blinking her single golden eye—

She does not know where here is, but it hardly matters when one has no anchors to hold. No chains to grip. She is not scared, which is strange, because she is so often scared. So often frozen.

This place is warm, though, and as she wanders she thaws. She is more accustomed to forests, by far. This place hold a faint hint of desert and it stirs her. But the stirring is not violent – it doesn’t make her sick, as perhaps it should – it makes her pensive and quiet. She follows the tide, pushed forward by waves of yellow-gold grass tickling her belly, until she finds the bay mare, waiting, as if for a sign that only she could possibly feel.

“Hello.” She does not stutter, nor does she cry, though the calm makes her feel as if she could. She believes this place is real. It feels more real here than in the stagnant places she has been before. She cranes her neck to look around, turning on the spot to guide the unbroken side of her face in panorama. “Where am I?”

and I pray to blades of grass to find forgiveness in the weeds.