I’m a teller of stories, I’m a singer of songs.
An oracle of omens, a re-writer of wrongs.
I’m an archetypal essence of both my ego and shadow.
The oracle of Sydney shares her wisdom with the world.
A wailing, blinding siren, I am the Spin Doctor.
We are dumb and there are plenty of
self-named experts who claim to know it all.
I had a dream I’d achieve something.
I was once where you are standing now.
I am your ghost of futures, past and present.
I’m more than just my memories, I cannot change my face.
I am not forgotten, still no one calls my name.
I am nothing and nobody of any might or worth,
A warrior in spirit, the silence deafening.
The ringing in your ears is
from my frequency my stellar self screaming.
We are here because of reasons;
There’s no greater scheme or grand conspiracy.
Your minds are mines for them to play with/in.
I won’t jump in this time uninvited.
It’s up to you to decide your fate post-earth.
I’m a teacher of students, I am a wife and a mother.
A prolific wordsmith, I weave my webs of words.
I’m a wild child, angsty maiden,
the rebel who healed herself the rebel who deceived herself. If I can do it, so can you. If I’m worthy, you are too If I can’t do it, it’s down to you. Take my knowledge, and memories too. From the cradle of existence,
out crawled the pinky-punk-pie hybrid.
From the crator of my ruin, out crawled a spiky-dark-slice mutant.
You’ll need greater luck than I can make, with deeper wisdom than I had gained, of the purest soul even I can’t fake.
Where’s Hope for the Summers? Cable-tied to a coronet, most likely. Ariadne would know.