For The Love of War…

Sometimes when the body dies, it is a relief, for the soul is finally free to breathe in its own way once more. Sometimes, the level of disconnection asked from men means they are long gone before their body bleeds out. Sometimes… Sometimes it’s worse to be the one left alive. In limbo. Not here. But not there either. Each time you close your eyes you just see death, and violence, and blood, and dismembered bodies, and dirt, and that smell.. That awful smell of rotting flesh never leaves. It is like it is encrusted into the nasal passages and every single time you inhale, it is all you smell. And the screams, the gunfire, the snapping bones, the spurting blood, the crying, the snivelling, the vomiting, the retching.. Then the silence. The only thing worse than the noises of war is the eye of the storm.. The unnerving calmness before the next wave comes. At least in an open fight the adrenalin is pumping and the breath comes fast and your heart pounds and pounds and pounds.. But in those moments between, those spaces, those silences, there is no adrenalin to stave off the horror, no distractions from the reality of it, nothing. There is nothing. Except pain. Pure pain. And how could anyone be expected to stay through that? So they find solace wherever they can.. Alcohol, smokes, women.. Whatever it is. And when that no longer works – which doesn’t take long – their pain bursts out and is inflicted on others. They begin to try to convince themselves they can do this, they were meant for this, that this is necessary, needed, wanted. A vague voice in the back of their head of someone who will never experience what they are feeling tries to tell them they are heroes, except no matter how hard they try, they cannot believe that. This is not the work of heroes. This is the work of separation, of depravity, of pain. Their hope is long gone. All they see is greyness. And smoke. And they crave death. They crave release. Yet it does not come. No matter how hard they try to not feel, they still do.
And that is when the Ones who worked with the Goddess would come. Because no one is ever completely gone until they are gone. We could transform it – the pain. We could hold them through each and every trauma and let them release it as they lay with us. And they did lay with us. For as long as they needed to. They would come broken, absent, floating somewhere far away behind the storm shelters deep within. We would draw them out again. We would show them love. We would embrace them, nurture them, hold them, kiss them, love them. Their shaking hands would reach tentatively for our breasts and with their lips that were tainted with salt water from their tears they would kiss. Gently at first for they did not trust any living thing anymore, and then harder, their desperation overtaking them, their hearts and souls knowing this was not a casual fuck to help them forget, this was sacred, this was spiritual, this was healing, this was the work of the Priestesses. And as we took them inside, they would feel the warmth and the sanctity of the womb of the Goddess. As we kissed them, we would breathe in all the pain they had tried so hard to hide. They would be stripped bare, burned clean and reborn. And some would curl into foetal positions and just suckle on our nipples as we held them. Others would fuck hard, and harder, and harder still and in one deep, dark screaming expulsion, all their trauma would come out and be absorbed back into the sea of Love. And then they would be still. Others were gentler, softer, untrusting, curious. These would stay longer, gradually reclaiming piece after piece of their spirit. And we would fall in love with each and every one who came for the time they were with us, for who can not love the broken souls of warriors? And each one we loved, left Whole again, returning to their families, their lovers, their children, their mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers.. And we would smile and send them on their way, the love of the Goddess going with them. And sometimes the screams from their hearts cut right through ours, but we always had each other. The strength of the Priestesses was restored and renewed by the sacred acts between them. There was more power in two than in one. And more power in many than in none. And the Love we had for the men who came to us was different than the love that flowed between us. Ours was celebratory love, divine love, ecstatic love, wild love, raw love. Our love was not work, it was pleasure, which in its secret, unseen, unexplainable ways contributed more to the good of the Whole than most would ever know. We fertilised the soil, we consecrated the ground. Our love would heal great expanses of land of the wounds it held. And each time we met in this way, it was Wholly. The Divine Lovers would be in us and through us and with us as we danced, our bodies pressed together, skin to skin, breast to breast, lips to lips, always knowing where to touch, how to feel, how to flow, how to breathe, how to kiss, how to move, for this dance was in us – it WAS us. And as our bodies moved together, our hearts would entwine, and our souls would become One with the Oneness, and we would be Home. Each and every time. This was the Way. This was the Why. This was the How. This was the Goddess. She would call to us and we would answer Her joyfully. She would meet us in the ecstatic spaces and Love with us. She would cleanse us, nurture us, teach us, love us. Through our Union She would come, and so would we. The waves of pleasure taking away any desire for words or thought or control. Complete surrender. And in that Space, eye to eye, heart to heart, soul to soul, breath to breath, we were Free.
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If reposting/sharing, please credit this page fully. Please do not post on websites, blogs etc without prior permission from the author. Thank you. © Copyright 2017 Where Divine Fire Glows

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