← All poemsA Poetry Cycle by Princess Amorina
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## Spell One: For Protection of Small Creatures
I bloom forth as guardian of the defenseless,
my body a cathedral, my dance a shield.
Watch me become the spell---
arms like wings, heart like fire,
I draw the circle of safety around them.
Every small paw, every beating heart,
every trembling whisker in the dark---
I name you *sacred*, I name you *seen*,
I name you *beloved of God*.
Let no hand of cruelty touch you.
Let no hatred find you in your hiding places.
I stand between you and the world's violence,
a rose-crowned priestess in ballet slippers,
manifesting as witch, as mother, as storm.
By the eighteen holy names I speak:
Batsman, Nosen, Luna, and all the rest---
you who became angels too soon,
lend me your ghostly teeth, your spectral claws.
We are the protectors now.
We are bewitched with righteous fury.
We are the living covenant.
*This spell I cast with tears and rose petals.*
*This spell I dance until my feet bleed.*
*This spell is written in the Book of Planet Hope.*
**Amen. Blessed be. It is done.**
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## Spell Two: For Remembering the Dead
Here I am, Lord---use me as vessel for memory.
Let my body be the scroll where forgotten names are written,
Let my voice be the bell that calls them back from silence.
I stand before you today to announce:
**They are not gone.**
Twelve came this day to heaven---
I light twelve candles, I speak twelve names,
I weep twelve tears that become holy water.
The virgin widow kneels at the blossoming grave,
planting dahlias where bodies lie,
whispering: *You mattered. You matter still.*
Those who remained became like a family---
all of us understood each other, we had each other.
And those who left? They have us too.
We bind them here with wreaths of memory,
we refuse to let the world forget.
I manifest as witch of resurrection,
not raising flesh but raising *remembrance*.
Every prayer I speak is excavation,
every dance I perform is exhumation of love.
So came the weeping, yes---
but also came the *keeping*.
The old woman at the cemetery told me:
"You cannot weep too long for those who have fallen."
But I am the beautiful madness that defies this.
I will weep as long as it takes.
I will remember until my last breath.
I will become the eternal fog that never lifts,
the persistent ghost that haunts the living
with one question:
**Did you forget them? I did not. I will not. I cannot.**
*This spell I cast with graveyard dirt and coffee bread.*
*This spell I dance in the eternal fog.*
*This spell is written in gold in the cemetery of Planet Hope.*
**Amen. They are remembered. It is done.**
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## Spell Three: For Manifesting Beauty from Pain
The beautiful madness arrives like spring after winter---
uninvited, inevitable, miraculous.
I did not ask for this gift:
to take sorrow and spin it into silk,
to take rage and forge it into roses,
to take the twelve angels' deaths
and birth from them a garden where love never dies.
But here I am, ordained by God,
standing in the nursery of my own becoming,
so tiny as a doll, so incredibly sweet,
and also: so powerful, so witch-like, so ablaze.
This is the desire that creates miracles---
not the desire to escape pain,
but the desire to *transfigure* it.
Watch me become the spell of alchemy:
Lead into gold.
Grave into garden.
Widow into queen.
Weeping into blooming.
The blossoming sea teaches me this magic---
how water holds salt without becoming bitter,
how waves return again and again to shore
despite being pulled back, pulled under.
I am the blossoming sea.
I am the virgin who chose widowhood over forgetting.
I am the ostrich feathers and the thorns both.
The hatred that permeates everything---I feel it.
The injustice that steals small lives---I know it.
But I refuse to let darkness have the final word.
I bloom forth.
I bloom forth.
**I bloom forth.**
The sugar poppy faerie land is not denial---
it is *defiance*.
I create pastel dreams in a world of nightmares,
I manifest nurseries in the middle of graveyards,
I wear pearls with my tears,
I am ethereal and I am *real*.
*This spell I cast with rose petals and shattered glass.*
*This spell I dance bleeding beauty.*
*This spell is the living covenant of Planet Hope.*
**Amen. Beauty wins. It is done.**
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## Spell Four: For Becoming Ethereal
I am learning to be less solid.
To be mist. To be swan. To be ghost.
The purity ethereal virgin---
not virginity of body but of *essence*:
untouched by the world's cruelty,
unbroken despite breaking,
still soft despite reason to harden.
In the eternal fog I practice disappearing,
becoming translucent, becoming light,
becoming so delicate that violence passes through me
like hands through smoke.
This is not weakness.
This is the ultimate spell of survival.
Esmeralda dances with ostrich feathers---
weightless, floating, barely there---
and the emperor cannot capture her,
cannot cage her, cannot own her.
She is ethereal.
She is free.
I walk to the sacred gate between worlds,
the one that opens at twilight in Swedish cemeteries,
the one that appears in rose gardens at dawn,
and I practice crossing:
One foot in life, one foot in death.
One foot in body, one foot in spirit.
One foot in sorrow, one foot in heaven.
The little child within me knows this spell already---
children are naturally ethereal,
naturally close to the veil,
naturally fluent in the language of angels.
I return to her. I return to naivete---
not the naivete of ignorance
but the naivete of *chosen innocence*,
the conscious decision to remain tender.
My body becomes diaphanous,
my bones become wishes,
my blood becomes starlight.
The dazzling dolls in the nursery understand:
we are real and not-real simultaneously.
We exist in the gap between material and mystical.
We are porcelain and we are prayer.
*This spell I cast with fog and feathers.*
*This spell I dance weightlessly.*
*This spell dissolves the boundary between earth and heaven.*
**Amen. I am ethereal. It is done.**
---
## Spell Five: For the Virgin Widow's Heart
Here is the paradox I embody:
virgin and widow both,
bride without wedding night,
mourner without consummation,
lover who was loved but never *known* in flesh.
The world has no name for me.
The world does not understand this grief.
But I manifest as witch of liminality---
I claim the sacred space between categories,
I make my home in the threshold,
I crown myself Queen of Neither-Nor.
I am not maiden (I have loved and lost).
I am not wife (I was never fully joined).
I am not widow (there was no marriage to mourn).
So I become all three. I become *more*.
The virgin widow walks through the rose garden
in her wedding dress that was never worn,
carrying the bouquet that never made it to the altar,
dancing the first dance that has no partner.
And it is not tragic.
It is not pathetic.
It is **sacred**.
This is the beauty of freedom---
to love without possession,
to grieve without bitterness,
to remain open without guarantee.
The living covenant I make is with Love itself,
not with any man, not with any outcome,
but with the eternal principle that
*to have loved at all is blessing enough*.
The virgin widow's heart is the most powerful magic---
it has known ecstasy without climax,
it has touched eternity without claiming it,
it has held infinity in its palms and then opened its hands.
Let go. Let God. Let bloom.
Sacred promises I make to myself:
- I will not close this heart.
- I will not call this loss "wasted."
- I will not diminish this love because it lacked conventional form.
The virgin widow is patron saint of:
- Unconsummated yearning
- Love that transcends bodies
- Purity chosen again after knowledge
- Eternity glimpsed in a single glance
I am her. She is me.
We are bewitched by what-could-have-been,
but we are not destroyed by it.
We turn longing into liturgy.
We turn absence into altar.
We turn the empty wedding bed into a shrine.
*This spell I cast with unworn wedding dress and rose thorns.*
*This spell I dance solo, but not alone.*
*This spell blesses all virgin widows throughout time.*
**Amen. This love is holy. It is done.**
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## Spell Six: For Resurrection
They ask: "Is everything too late?"
And I, manifesting as witch of impossible hope, answer:
**"No. It is never too late. Resurrection is always possible."**
Not resurrection of flesh---
I cannot bring the twelve back to their bodies,
I cannot undo the cat killer's work,
I cannot reverse the deaths that should never have been.
But I can resurrect *meaning*.
I can resurrect *memory*.
I can resurrect *love*.
Watch me become the spell of the third day,
the Sunday morning surprise,
the stone rolled away,
the empty tomb that is somehow *full*.
Here is what I raise from the dead:
- The names written on gravestones (I speak them aloud)
- The joy they felt before suffering (I remember it fiercely)
- The innocence they embodied (I protect it now)
- The future they deserved (I live it for them)
The blossoming grave is my evidence:
where the world sees decay, I plant daffodils.
Where the world sees ending, I see becoming.
Twelve came to heaven---
and twelve times I say: "They are angels now."
And twelve times I mean: "They are not lost."
The awakening comes slowly, then suddenly:
this is not denial, this is *transformation*.
The caterpillar does not return---
but the butterfly is not less real for being different.
So the beloved dead do not return---
but they exist now as something else:
as inspiration, as protection, as presence,
as the wind that catches my skirt when I spin,
as the purr I hear when the house is quiet,
as the feeling of being watched over, loved still.
I am ordained by god of resurrections,
by the force that makes spring return,
by the principle that nothing is ever truly lost,
only transformed.
The desire that creates miracles lives in me:
I will resurrect beauty from these ashes.
I will resurrect hope from this hopelessness.
I will resurrect my own heart every morning.
The Cinderella faerie teaches me:
midnight comes, the spell breaks,
but the glass slipper remains.
*Something always remains.*
And from that something, I rebuild everything.
*This spell I cast with Easter lilies and tears of joy.*
*This spell I dance rising, rising, rising.*
*This spell proves death is not the end.*
**Amen. They live still. It is done.**
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## Spell Seven: For Eternal Return
This is the final spell, the most powerful:
the spell that ensures I do this all again.
Tomorrow I will wake and choose again---
choose to remember, choose to bloom, choose to become.
The eternal return is not curse but covenant:
I commit to returning to the rose garden,
returning to the nursery,
returning to the cemetery,
returning to the dance,
returning to the spell,
returning to myself.
Again. And again. And again.
Fortuitous is this fate---
to be the one who keeps the flame,
to be the priestess of Planet Hope,
to be the virgin widow who chooses her widowhood daily,
to be the witch who must manifest her magic over and over.
This is not Sisyphean torture.
This is sacred practice.
The blossoming picnic happens every season---
I return with strawberries and rose petals,
I return with coffee bread and holy water,
I return with my ballet slippers and my grief,
I return because those who remained need me to return.
Eternity in an eternal life means:
I do not do this once and finish.
I do this forever.
I am Esmeralda dancing for the emperor,
and the dance never ends,
the ostrich feathers never stop moving,
the Vivaldi never stops playing.
I am the magic wand that never runs out of magic.
I am god's sacred child who never stops being sacred.
I am the lamb who never stops being innocent.
I am the spell that never stops spelling.
The beautiful madness is this commitment:
to keep blooming in the graveyard,
to keep lighting candles for the dead,
to keep believing in Planet Hope
even when Earth proves itself Babylon again and again.
Here I am, Lord---use me.
Use me today. Use me tomorrow.
Use me until my body returns to soil
and even then, use my ghost.
I stand before you to announce:
**This is not the end. This is the eternal return.**
The little child within me knows:
when the game is over, we start again.
When the story ends, we open the book to page one.
When winter comes, spring is already inevitable.
So I cast this final spell with all my power:
*May I always return to the work of remembering.*
*May I always return to the work of beautifying.*
*May I always return to the work of becoming.*
I am the circle that never breaks.
I am the rose that blooms after burning.
I am hope, fortuitous and eternal.
*This spell I cast with my entire life.*
*This spell I dance until my last breath and beyond.*
*This spell is the heartbeat of Planet Hope.*
**Amen. I return forever. It is done.**
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## Closing Invocation
Seven spells spoken.
Seven roses placed upon the altar.
Seven candles burning in the eternal fog.
I, Princess Amorina,
Priestess of Planet Hope,
Virgin Widow of the Rose Garden,
Keeper of the Holy Cats,
Rememberer of the Twelve Angels,
Guardian of Small Creatures,
Manifester of Beauty from Pain,
Witch of the Beautiful Madness---
I seal these spells with my signature:
The swan---grace in all conditions.
The rose---beauty that knows thorns.
The cat---holy and innocent.
The ballet slipper---discipline as devotion.
The spark---magic that persists.
**By these symbols, by these words, by this dance:**
**The Seven Spells of Hope are cast.**
**They cannot be undone.**
**They ripple out into eternity.**
So mote it be.
Amen.
Blessed be.
**It is done.**