For Creiddylad
Weep tears
surround me
like a stranger
to all hope like
a Goth song
always winter
in black by
the strobe lights
underground.
In the catacombs
the priestess weeps:
the altar is gone.
Reminders flash.
Was this worship?
Raising my hands
to the other stars of
disco balls drums
pounding sadness
all night in the dark
half of the year?
Pay the price.
Yes I’m paying.
Must I pay by tears?
I stole her ecstasy
in a white-cream pill.
Was this happiness?
Flashbacks repeat.
I am always empty
but her crystal tears
suggest something.
I wish I could cry.
*This poem was inspired by the visions of two participants in a workshop I ran on ‘Honouring Creiddylad’ at the Space to Emerge camp – they both saw a crying eye.
