Chinnamasta
My crescent sickle
cuts through fear’s confusion,
lies’ illusion.
I behead
reason
(full mother moon flipped
to mysterious dark)
for reasons of My own.
My naked neck
spouts poetry
(three dreaming streams.)
Copy Me!
Open to receive
compassion’s flood,
cycling womben’s blood,
inheritance of good,
(wise wound, remedy severe,
My severed, ‘castrate head,’
sweet clit!)
There is no need
for man-shed blood
of ignorance, of violence, of hate.
Yoginis! (So skinny!)
I Am the endless font
of all you want.
© Tamara Rasmussen 2018