The energy spikes from your back,
Pricking the air,
The wounded child resorts to..
Undermining all there,
Cowering in fear,
Rejected by their own thoughts,
They wallow in what could of been,
When they could be right here.
The wounded child remains
Attached to the fairytale,
Wanting to be the glorified hero,
Without doing anything,
They wait for the golden spoon,
To deliver their dreams,
Hiding from the reality,
That there is more to living.
So drawing upon strength,
They recognise their attachment..
To obsolete archetypes..
That no longer exist,
And with the sword of Michael..
They shatter the bonds,
The golden light of Raphael sealing
Them back to where they belong.
Responsible and trustworthy,
They manage their own peaks and troughs,
Self regulating with boundaries,
They are met with unbridled love,
The myths they once sought
Are forgotten, no longer exist,
They see their life for what it is,
Truly a Gift