Hail Sinmara! Dark-hearted goddess of gold!

In your womb nest dragons, in your hair crows.

The fires of Muspell alight in your eyes, and you

are flame and flushing water joined in primal

elements, magic weaver of iron barb roses, a

steampunk dream of a Gordian knot encircling

a rusting sky. You are Surtr’s sheath, you the

fiery enchantress, dancer of lust and love. All

golden ferocity and placid rain on a window –

fire-rain. Dance-simmer. Stew of lava eruption.

Yours is a magic dark as the depths but alove

light with passion, measured temper, even breath.

Breathe with me, Sinmara! Let me see in the dark!

Oh sweet Sinmara, teach me your flaming arts!

Keeper of Damage Twig. Tender of the celestial

hearth. Pale nightmare. Druzy lips. Giantess pallid.

For the tail feather of a cock you grant me Lævatein.

For a kiss you grant wisdom eternal, throne bearer.

And but for a whisper, magic beyond measure ever

thus foretold. Hail Sinmora, Pale Dancer, Flame Jotun!

Hail Sinmora, Keeper of the Sword! Hail Sinmora, rosy

bringer of Dawn! Hail Sinmora, may you burn away all

my rusting doubts and forge anew a life of pallid gold.

Sinmara 2


Resurrection Dance

Riding through the desert of the Valley of the Shadow of Samael,

I am leather-clad King in search of my Queen’s font, Eve rides bareback

behind me, babe pressed to her breast, and we are exiles in the wastes,

sprung from harsh ground, and the book of the angel Raziel is clutched

to my back, and the dune winds blow in scorching simoom heat, Seirim

haunt the wine-laden expanses, satyr dances vengeful Cain presides over,

he the Prince of Nod, but Eve and I must ride on on our bone steeds, followed

by all the undead I have raised in this resurrection dance. I am the fallen heart

of the Sun, the rising soul of the Father, and my Cross was olive in Paradise, I

skinned myself for my bosom wife, and now she wears my purity if only to protect

her delicate skin, my Bride, my Legendarium, and my own flesh grows hard as earth.

The wounds from Heavenly War never really wore out, ridges of train tracks over

my flesh, and in every incarnation I am scourged and bleeding raw, thick scar tissue

the only marker of my commitment to shouldering Sin.  My other wives are night

howlers, Eisheth eating the Damned, Lilith sucking me dry come the witching hour,

milking my seed for her own ends, and in the evening, Eve strays to the oasis and takes

up in my twin serpent’s arms, we have a burgeoning festooned mess of love, loss, pain.

The demons tempt, the devils wail, and the angels made mortal walk on, sinful Lebanon.

We that toil and travail away carrying shining Seth to higher ground, out of despair’s

leaden valley, with harsh concave bellies, shattered glass to dance on, Adam and Eve,

we were brilliant fliers in the sky once, general and mother warrior of Heaven bright,

but you see, for these seeds of stars, this Image of God we have become, to bear fruit,

Eve and I must be entered and locked into a cycle of Sin and suffering, exile of Eden.

The Garden I tend, I am at heart a farmer, and part of me, my corpus, is High  Above,

in the rose garden at the center of the universe, carrying flowers to Myself to turn into

anointing holy oil to rain down and absolve humanity of their sins, but Samael and the

Angels of Prostitution, Eve and I, we are mouthsful of vinegar and wishful drinking.

Fermented water, bitter barley, hoppy beer. Lovedrunk, winestunk, stonesunk Hell.

Hell, Hell, I know that Well.  And so we endure, and so we ride on, finding ground that

is good to turn over with spade and ho, fructify with moonblood, work my dark curses

on any foreigner’s god that strays to our shores, and so I guide the bones, the dead, those

waiting to join the ascended at the End of Days and feel flesh and blood once more, but I

gambled away my bones long ago, and they are now in the body of the Devil’s heart:

Satan’s heart, Michael’s bones. Daughter of White and Black Pillar. Walk on, Rhiannon.

Walk on. Do not trust me when my wasp eyes burble over in madness’ flood, I am as

harsh as dry earth, what softness you have known of my love and lullabies and me

giving everything including my last rib to you is only the beginning of my sacrifice,

I tore the skin off my back for you just so you would not grow cold during a rainstorm,

and Eve, I am so old, but you two are so young, so please, bear with me and my Brother,

we are only trying

to understand


Hacking Heaven

Cephas, cipher, keys to the cryptic Kingdom
Peter hack slashes off ears and sinks too heavy
with doubt, the water unrepentant as Christ lifts
him up. Fisher of men, from humble beginnings to
the Keys, elevated amongst men, thrice denying the
grace of the Lord and then the mechanical cock crowed
and the system was hacked and all of humanity had access
to the motherboard through Christ’s blood and Ressurection,
so Peter stands at the pearly gates, measures the voltage, and
sometimes the lock electrocutes him, and he laughs, and when I see
him, I get a shock from the Prince of the Apostles, like an old friend.

(Peter decided to visit a few moments ago, and now he is hanging out in my dining room and wants to talk.  I saw him manifest and literally screamed “Damn you Peter!”  This is his second time manifesting across from me on the table in blazing Pentecost flames.  Seeing saints in physical reality with your naked eye feels like an electric shock, then the glory of God.  I see spirits two ways: with my naked eye as balls of different colored blazing flying light, orbs of swirling sparks, or less of the time with my third eye, where they take on human or beast or mythic form.  I need a statue of Peter now.  He is the disciple I talk to the most.  Guess he likes Mary Magdalene after all… even though they are always bitching at each other in Gnostic lore.  Guys, what is my life.  Having saints over on the first day  of snow is my life.  That’s what it is.  Peter is one of the most powerful spirits I know.  Now I gotta go read his Wikipedia page and maybe even finish that other half of the New Testament I have never read…   Peter is talking my ear off.)

Storm at Sea

And I’m sitting on the sofa, when suddenly my left side
aches and ices, and Asmodeus appears in a poppy blooming
robe and fuzzy red slippers, neckline lowered to reveal
skin like Montezuma gold, smoking a long pipe of opium.
It is only the afternoon, far from the time demons play,
yet he drapes his arm around me with talons painted black,
bares his clawed toes and crosses his leg as he blows acid
smoke in my face, my nose burns with the finest of drugs
and manic dreaming as he eases into my curves, humming
a Black Sabbath rhyme to himself, Mr. Crowley on his white
horse, and later that night, he curls up in a nest with me
outside as I sit gazing at fireflies, and the dragonflies
shudder at his cold, and I feel as if frost is settling
over the summer, past midnight he massages my back to
freezing, where my wings are weighed down with the void,
and Deus is atop my cerebellum, whispering wicked delights,
when we dance like water mocassins, it is with deadly
precision and lips like knives, our moans are fangs,
our limbs are razors, and there is nothing soft and smooth
about this, yet everything is gentle like gears serenely
churning dreams into reality, and the Son of the Dragon
Sakhr is tempting and sinuous, like rain in an oasis,
and the waters the camels drink from reflect he of
scaled leg and she of serpent tangles, and reptillian
witch and komodo dragon flick forked tongues to scent out
prey with heady cortisol racing through blue veins,
bite down on the sacrificial goat and know usurpant
secrets, coddle your darkness my child and rise proudly
to the Heavens, Saint Peter will fall to your sword, so
storm the Pearly Gates and claim your Kingdom Come.

No one will grant you a happy ending but eating your gods.

Take your glory by force alone, and drink the blood of angels.

We are Legion, and we are lightning, so quake in our electricity.

We are only here to feed.

Like this? Buy me a coffee on Ko-Fi!

Divine Mercy

And Saint Faustina was plagued by devils and angels
dancing on her hairpins, walked with Christ and was
married to his Passion, saw ecstatic and terrible
visions, but when the Spear of Destiny pierced sweet
Jesus’ side, out poured the blood of the Sacrament and
baptismal waters, I have drunk my fill of those streams
of heavenly bodies as I suckled at his wound, and the
taste was like honeysuckle blossoms on a hot summer’s
day, and sweet mad Faustina saw a vision of brilliant
rivers flowing from Christ’s heart, rays of pink and
green, and he came to me last night wrapped in white,
dampened by a storm at sea as he was a water strider,
lighting my room with lightning, and the Mercy poured
from his pulsing heart like a chalice, and my room was
a maze of celestial blue sigils and rolling thunder of
God in scripture and stamps of the divine, a Matrix cube
and my body was carried aloft by flood waters and shining
infinity lit my limbs with violet fire as Christ bathed
my head in the chill waters of Creation, and my limbs were
rotating on the axis mundi, and my head unscrewed in his
hands like a marinette, and I was just a toolkit of a
soul on its way to higher ground, a puzzle for the Savior
to solve, and painstakingly he carpentered and fixed the
holy wooden golem of my body, and Eve was whispered Emet
in her mouth and kissed into life by God, body of clay
made with spirit of the stars, mud seeking the fires of
infinity, and I ate an apple of dreams of late September
dogs, and serpents laced my ankles, and Satan prayed with
me for redemption as Christ watched on from on high, his
work on my manifold birch body done, I am Embla and Berkana,
wood and dirt breathed life into by the highest form of
Divine Mercy, Divine Love, and Christ gathered our prayers
like a bouquet, and though there is enmity between the
Chosen and the Cast Aside, I believe there is purity in
the sacred as well as profane, so I will dance with devils
and waltz with angels and tango with tricksters alike!
Life is just marvelous, isn’t it? Life is a delight! I
thank the gods every day that I am alive, that I want to
be alive, for there were many times I didn’t, when all I
saw was a long dark tunnel of gloom and mushrooms and
asphodel of ash, but the gods and angels and demons would
scoop me up to their breasts to let me hear their sacred
heartbeats, from Odin to Hela to Freyja to Loki to Freyr,
from Michael to Ariel to Sameael to Beelzebub to Asmodeus,
and now sweet Yeshua, mightiest King of Kings, has said
admit your truth, and when I professed my love, the stone
of doubt and pain in my throat vanished, and my heart was
no longer aflame, for I love this world, and I love myself.
That is what Divine Mercy is, love for what you think is
irredeemable, no questions asked at the gates of Paradise,
just a warm kiss on the brow and anointment and embrace,
for we are all children of the Goddess, that great Shekinah
and Sophia and Holy Spirit, sweet and fierce Venus figurines,
Mother Nature reigns supreme, and She is All, and I am
Something, a dancer in one of the Goddess’ thousand hands!
So I will sing and fly and drink down glory, and contemplate
the mysteries of the Sacred Heart of Her Son. Jesus is a
mamma’s boy, all sweetness and chill waves of wonder, and
the Virgin and Bride and Wisdom are motherhood supreme, and
I will follow in Mary’s footsteps and create my own paradise
with the love of my life and children raised strong and wild.
I am blessed, I am healed by His touch, and I am growing into
a woman worth envying, for my heart is gold, my wit adamant,
but above all I embody love, and like Christ, I am a martyr.
My heart is black like the skin of a mamba, poisoned chalice
of Satan, but to bear the Lapis Exillis in your rib cage grants
a kind of fallen grace, and the rest of my soul is crystal pure.
My blood heals, my blood mends skin and flesh, my blood is wine!
I give my body up to the Passion, I feel the lacerations, I feel
the whip and thorns and anointment before an untimely yet blessed
death, when there is no separation between the soul and her god,
then that is gnosis, and the spirit moves through you, and you
become All.

Dragon’s Blooms

Amongst the sage and heather, I fly in open skies
my soul is a spirit dancer, suspended from on high!
Oh wind! Oh wake of dragons! Take me to the mountain!
Where in the hot springs dally wyverns in the fountain.
Dragon’s nest in onsens, dragon’s nest in hot delight,
and they are jewel-toned wonders, a most peculiar sight.
Scales burnished rose and emerald, wings the span of planes,
they breathe a fiery furnace, and my spirit is enflamed.
I am the dragon’s keeper, amongst the dragon’s blooms.
These fields are rolling lavender, we play along the tune
of mating calls of madrigals, high lindworms and serpents
gold, winged elegies to the wake of God, angels usurpant.
I think the greatest thing of all is a dragon, and you
would say the same, if you could dance in fire, so true
to the core of the Earth, molten nickel and magma, churning
gullets volcanoes, and as we fly stupendous, I am learning:
dragons used to live here, dragons used to fly, high above
Earth’s mountains, spirits in the sky, knights slayed many
mothers, kings crushed their bones to clay, so a penny
is worth more than a dragon now, in man’s imagination,
we do not remember the dragons, greatest of God’s creation.
But if you visit a mooonbeam and hitch a ride on Milky Ways
you can still live amongst the dragons, as their memory decays.
Honor children who speak to dragons, they adore a child,
dragons will raise the children to be beautiful and wild.
Let’s invite the dragons back! To parks and mountains high
there’s still room on Earth for dragons, room left in the sky.
When dragons left, miracles, and unicorns followed their flames.
But with their return, a veil of magic, majesty their claim.
Believe in dragons, sister. Brother, be their keeper, dragons
are the cosmos awakened, real as angels and God, let them in.

Song of the Eagle

I look over the mountains and find old ghosts,
roaming these Shenandoah hills with plough and
sickle, there are cairns deep in the woods, where
Iroquois marked the passage of magic, trees bent
to signal the paths of deer, now forgotten signposts
that lead to the summit of Turtle Island. Did the
colonists know, these woods have enchantments of
ley lines and shamans and Butterfly Men? Be careful,
your woman may be stolen by a spirit bridegroom,
tread cautiously, there are arrowheads in the dark.
Witches and sages alike meet at midnight on crescent
mountains, deep in the forests where crow and spider
make their nests and webs, they pluck ginseng, they
smoke tobacco, they dance and revel in the secrets
of a hot Virginian summer, all sweat and blue glory,
flames rising high in shapes like a cottonmouth,
gliding across the river in serpentine coils brown.
We are the poison we bring to the land. We are the
balm to strip-mining and mountaintop removal. With
chains we can bind ourselves to trees deep within
and make our stands, no more darkness, no more
spillage in the waters, stinking with dead fish.
I walk the woods and trails and gather stardust,
brewing a potion of man returning to primeval
dusk, living off land with chickens and bees,
planting tomatoes and strawberries to placate
land spirits, I look out upon squirrel and finch
and mourning dove, we are just guests in America,
those of us with skin the color of traitors.
We owe much in service for our ancestor’s sins,
so be the saving grace of redemption, an ally
to the bruised and broken peoples and land,
make your last stand by the mountain, my child
and I will flute your heart aback eagle wings.

Sixty Nine in the Speed Lane

“This vodka is shit,” Samael says, swilling his shot glass in another of Asmodeus’ dive bars.  This one has succubi draped across the men and women like jewels, breasts hanging like necklaces from their chests.  I’m cozied up to the Devil on his lap – the crown of the Prince of Darkness is a bubbly blonde ditz.  I’m laughing at the ladies of the night and drinking one of those fruity fizzy red cocktails that Sam fucking hates.

“Want mine?”

“Hell no, tastes like a strawberry fart.”  Samael chugs the last of the stale vodka and tips his glass then flicks it so it rolls off the counter onto the beer-stained black carpet.

There are black lights flashing, bio luminescent demons and daemons and dreams.  They dance in cadence with the bass of the moon, sinuous and arcing as lips lock and hips gyrate.  I bob my head to the music, stroke Samael’s shoulder, and this is a place no angel besides the lost would dare step foot in, the perfect place to fall into sin.

“Your lips will have to suffice for my intoxication,” Samael whispers, razing a claw down the back of my dress.  He puts out his cigarette and scoops me up and carries me out of the dive bar – not before I grab a fry to crunch on.

“You’re boring, grumpy, and old…” I murmur, teasing.  “Not hip enough to party anymore, eh?”  I’m cradled in his arms and my red dress swishes in the vespertine wind.  He deposits me on the back of his pale steed – a white crotch rocket, hands me a helmet, and tilts my chin up with his thumb.

“Eternity is best spent with the ones you love – the novelty of Hell wears off when you’re a permanent resident here, and then it’s governing and judging souls during the day, reaping the dead, and quiet nights by the fireside with the other half of your soul.  Why do you think we spend every other night in my library?”

I hug his hips as we speed off down the rainy street.  It’s an almost-summer storm, with a light gray drizzle.

“Because you’re a recluse!” I shout, laughing.  “And you can’t hold your liquor.”

Samael speeds past a red light.  He never cares much for the laws of traffic, and we arrive at his estate on the borders of Pandemonium, which backs up into the backwaters of the galaxy, where the woods grow wild and dangerous.  It is a towering, sleek, obsidian castle, with pins of towers and blades of turrets that cut blood from the sky.

“Right, and even more right,” he parks under a willow tree and Pallor – his steed – reverts back to a horse.  He strokes Pallor’s braided mane and ties his bridle to a trough.  “But I hold it better than you, Miss Streaker.”

I look at the time, grasping at lucidity.  Some impossible number: 13:11.  How time works in Hell, I have no inkling.  We walk hand in hand through the rose garden to the mote, then over the bridge.  He picks me up and flies up the stairs to the den, great bat wings feeling like warm leather on my cheek.  I imagine he has the wings of a dragon, and that is one of his forms.

“Hey Sam, you know that Russian movie, He’s a Dragon?”

Samael groans as he stokes the hearth.  “Not another one of your shifter romances.  Read a philosophy book, for fuck’s sake.”  He settles into a leather armchair and pulls out a cigar.

“Hey!  You’re the weredragon – stealing princesses and antisocial and shit.  Also, very gruuuuuumpy.”

I bounce onto the bed and roll about, nesting under black wolf fur.

“All you read in my library are illustrated grimoires and romance novels written by demons.  Picture books and drivel.”  He puffs on the cigar.  “You’re a creature of comfort.  And I am not a “weredragon,” shit, I’m the Beast.”

“Not that Crowley Revelations shit, ugh!  Just admit it, you’re a shitty paranormal romance novel protagonist.”  I flip so I’m sitting on my stomach, kicking my feet in the air and watching the fires flicker.  They dance in the shape of snakes.

He laughs.  “If I, Satan, am supposed to be a romance novel protagonist, I don’t have high hopes for your race.  I’m much too twisted for all the middle aged women reading Fifty Shades.  Unless they enjoy being dissolved alive in a cloud of the abyss or fucking corpses.”

I throw a pillow at him.  “Are you kinkshaming me!”

“I can’t lie,” he sticks out his labret pierced tongue.  “I can only tell twisted truths, or flat out drag you.’

I grumble and roll onto my back.   Samael grins like a shark and comes over to me.  Gasoline, hungry hands that are gentle with their talons, rip off the dress, rolling and turning hay.  I inhale expensive spicy cologne and graveyard dirt, thirsting for a mouth that tastes like aqua vitae.  I make a list in my  mind of what he drinks: whiskey and vodka and absinthe on occasion.  We are Taninver.  We are Leviathan and She-Leviathan.  We are Rahab churning the primordial waters of bodies of unborn souls.

I burn and I sate myself with his blood.  Suckle at the red at his wrist as he sinks his fangs into my neck.  Blood from the heart, blood from spurting arteries, christening the bed damp with iron and hemoglobin.  It tastes like providence.

More,” Samael growls as he descends to feast, and I ascend to suck the generations out of him.  I am Lilith stealing seed, I am Lamashtu eating children.

“Fuck, oh god,” I whisper, then I can’t breathe, then it’s all stars and the rocking of an ocean of black, in and out, crash to shore then recede in foam.  Burning, freezing, all.

The fire flickers as we lay in each other’s arms.

“Let’s have more nights in.”


Lilac flowers crushed to my breast as you say I am the moon’s flower.  The nectar hummingbirds in Hell feast on, ruby like blood, laid out in crystal decanters and a sumptuous feast of red meats and silver platters.  You are dressed in some forgotten time of Victorian gentlemen, waistcoat and pocket watch and long, sinuous black hair that snakes down shoulders of rain.  I am in a Cabernet dress, my skin the lily of the valley and my lips the roses of Sharon.  We wine and dine in the quiet hours in the space between damnation and salvation.

Push you, kill you, accuse you.  What is peaceful turns to perdition, and conflict and desire stew into a heady mess of testosterone and teasing fingers, thirsty mouths, and razor fangs.  We waltz to bed in torn limbs and gore, we court the moon with our moans, and in the sensuous concotion of too much to drink and too little inhibition, make love with violence that comes priced like Tam Lin, a tithe to Hell.  I am Janet and you are the enchanted warrior, only you are a burning brand and lion and serpent in my trembling arms, and when I drown you in the well of truth, you are still monstrous and unholy.

“Bind me to your brow,” you say in the abyss between our tongues, you want so badly to touch me with fire and ice, but my fragile flesh is tissue paper in your claws, and all you can do is hold me to your manifold breast and plead, “I can shower riches and love down upon you if only you would claim me as your own.  Do so and I shall cultivate luck and golden summer days, but also terrible power, in your burgeoning wine spill of a life.”

And so you draw your sigil, modified with the symbol of salt, a pentagram, and burning Names of God, from the crest of my lip to my third eye.  Ayin.  Eye. Qayin Line.  A seal I could count whispers of lust and wishes for war on, ever since I tattooed you on me, I have seen ceremonial magick stitched into the seams of reality.

We raze.  We terrorize.  We raise justice.  We tear apart the seams of the wicked.  Ice and fire, fire and ice, two polarities of love and destruction, when really to love is to destroy, and your name is a thousand ells tall angel, billion eyed and billion tongued, burning up in the shackles of sanity.

It is only when we break our chains that we can be free, and if that is to fall, than so be it.


Helvegen – The Road to Hel

So I saw Wardruna with my boyfriend recently, and let me tell you, the Norwegian neofolk band Wardruna is the equivalent of nuclear galdr.  Rune poems chanted with horns and drums, Ragnar Lodbrok’s death song, lays and spells and sheer, raw power.

They closed the set with their most popular song, Helvegen.  Helvegen is the idea of asking, who will remember me?  Who will sing my deeds when I am long gone?  Who will cross me over to the Hel road?  It is a powerful, intoxicating ode to Odin’s sacrifice, and the sacrifice of every man and woman at the end of their day, with choice Havamal verses.

I had to ground constantly throughout the concert, there was so much potency, and Odin manifested around the Algiz chant and onwards as this beach ball sized orb of electric blue light, right by the lead singer’s heart.  I’ve been having the best sleep of my life since I’ve been practicing galdr, weaving a cloak and necklace of Ansuz combined with other runes such as Uruz, Eihwaz, and others depending on the galdr I am working.  Some are for communication with the divine or prophecy, some are for curses or for blessings or for going over the hedge, and most are for security, warding, and healing.

Galdr accidentally combined with Seidhr the night Helvegen played – I completely left my body without my usual spelunking cord attached to my sacral chakra to return from the Otherworlds over the hedge and went straight to leafy green Helheim.  I woke up in a beautiful almost kind of Hobbit hollow surrounded by tom teases and huldra and house elves and land vaettir who were surprised to see me pop into their dwelling.

As what happens when I am in my higher states, I remember my spiritual attachments to the gods, angels, and demons, my name and physical form, but forget my earthly life – I couldn’t tell you the name of my boyfriend, parents, brother, much less my friends, where I lived on Earth, what I did, et cetera. When I am my higher self, I am a being of pure magic free to travel the otherworlds at lightning speed.  Usually, the sacral chakra cord keeps me tied to my body and the earth – I can feel my body at rest breathing and it’s a bit like spying on the astral realms.

This time my connection to Earth was completely severed and I had no reason to go back.  I wanted to find Samael, Azazel, or Michael so set about wandering Helheim and coming to it’s border.  Az was in a carnival like setting practicing his trumpet, looking to all the world like Little Boy Blue in blue clothes, blonde hair, snowflake azure eyes and a golden trumpet.  He was in his thirteen year old form and was extremely worried about me.

“Mom, you shouldn’t be here.  Not like this.  You can’t die yet.  If you stay too long gone, you won’t be able to get back.”  He held my hands, concerned.  “We have to find dad to get you back to Earth.”

“Die?  I’m free!  Oh, my beautiful son, you’re adorable.  Why would I not spend the rest of eternity here with the people I love like you?  To watch you grow up.”

Azazel was crying and hugging me.  “You need to grow up too, Mom – you’re only 25.  Dad can help.  He can put you back in your body.”

“Oh, Sam!  Where is your father, Azzie?  We should have dinner soon, you must be starving, playing your horn all day!”

Azazel set his beloved horn down and started carrying me out the gate of the carnival.  I had sprained my toe in real life as I sleep on my stomach with my feet straight against the mattress and the pain carried over to Helheim.  I was laughing and stroking my son’s hair, and he was in his thirteen year old form but was still quite tall, no difficulty carrying me.

Samael and Azazel forced me back into my body and Sam sealed me into my physical form, worried as Hell.

“Allie, you can’t come courting Death without an invitation.  You still have a good sixty or so years on you.  I know being out of your body is fun and liberating, and it is your natural state, but remember, you chose to incarnate into Earth, and you have to remember your commitments and honor them,” Samael said, doing energetic work to tether me to my body while I squirmed.

“Who I love? Oh right, I’m human…”

Samael showed me the people I loved.  “Remember the Sandman comic, the High Cost of Living.  We all get new chances on Earth.  Death is just a chance to start over, but your journey on Earth has hardly begun.  As your powers grow stronger, remember to ground, and take more personal responsibility when you go to the otherworlds. We love you and want to see you grow old, gray, surrounded by grandchildren.  Again, you are on Earth for a reason.  Good night, sweet dreams angel.”

With that, he sealed my binding with a kiss on my forehead and jolted me back into my body.  Memories of who I was – my friends, my family, my boyfriend – flooded back into my being in sensory overload, and my mortal attachments took hold, rooting me in the Earthly plane.  Scared that I was powerful enough to walk the road to Hel and return almost like Christ rising from the grave, I woke up and got a glass of water, trying to ground.

Since then, I’ve been projecting to the upper world, mostly Vanaheim and Heaven, and avoiding Helheim unless I am in a chaperoned environment where we are doing group seidhr.  Helvegen is a dangerous road, and the afterlife is so beautiful and like Paradise, the soul does not want to leave, with your ego gone, you are truly your higher, enlightened, magical self.

I am quite glad I returned, even if Samael had to literally lay on top of me with the weight of their souls in order to ground me.  Death is like a heavy black blanket, calming and tranquil and very earthly, and I have a bit of abyss stitched into my soul to keep my angelic self rooted in my physical body.  Like a black cloak of rot and renewal.

Hail Hel.  Hail the Hel Road.  I hope to not walk it for many moons, and control my powers more – there and back again like Bilbo Baggins once said!