Old dayes, ancient wayes; hand upon the thick page of blood‑printed lore; coarse porridge of crème, oats, and honey warming the vessel of clay. I lounge in my house of dust, breath, and water, hearing the constant, unmistakable hum of the wytch’s chorus— that low, marrow‑deep vibration that never lies.
Lessons of truth rise from shadowy libraries of shimmery gold sewn through leather‑bound gnosis, whispering their secrets to any soul still enough to perceive. I flow from this world to the next, slipping through portals of organic glass, each pane a memory, each crack a doorway.
When you require nothing, what will you seek? When the hunger quiets, when the wanting dissolves who do you long for? Deceased children wander the threshold, wide‑eyed, not afraid, only unsure of the path, seeking a guide to the underworld’s gentle shadow. Their small hands reach for the familiar, for the warmth of a voice that remembers them.
Digital hypnosis pulls the mind far from the beauty of the old dayes, ancient wayes; screens flicker where once fire revealed. But all it takes is a sacred space, an open channel carved in silence, to revisit the old dayes, ancient wayes that forever exist on the living membranes between breaths.
Excess meat dulls the brain; carnal senses thicken the veil, blocking stairs to truth and wisdom. Yet all seek love and acceptance— whether in bodies of clay or no, whether walking the sunlit path or drifting the silvered halls underneath.
And still the chorus calls, reminding you of the lineage you carry, the rites you have not forgotten, the power that waits in the bloode of the old dayes, ancient wayes.
Renee Tarot
