The soul cavern, deep and sonorous, where the wild things echo as their jaws stretch wide at the perimeter, howling to be heard. Edges barely held back, vines curling around anything and all things. The light is palpable, even blinding, and all that is not Spirit squints and shuffles away from the centre. Here is peace of a new kind, golden solicited silence, like ice-cold ale poured into frosted glass chakra. Here is sitting, palms upwards, smiling soft and true.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015