The words halt at the tip of my mind refusing to flow other than scattered images around my tired psychie. This is my curse. When there are so many thoughts, so many images, delusions if you will they fight to be exposed, to be understood by my conscious. My Muse has an odd sense of humor, she brings me dreams, visions of what could be but then laughs at my piteous attempts to put thought to paper. Whispers in the darkness haunt me in my waking hours and lands of long ago stalk my dreams. A soul out of place in this modern time, a longing to go back to my native home. The Emerald Isle of my soul, the place of old that calls out to me, tearing a piece in my already wounded heart. An emptiness so vast it seems as though even the great Atlantic Ocean could not fill the caverns that have carved themselves within the very depths of my soul. An Old Soul, a name, but yet so much more than just a name, the truth of my existence. A name that has slowly defined me as I realize with every passing day it's truth.

To dance beneath the darkened sky
Whispers of magic blowing in the breeze
Power abound within the soul of old
To call upon the roots that lie so deep.

    These are the words of my past, of my present and of my future, these are the words of my heritage. Both Native American and Irish, The Shaman, the Wisewoman, the ageless Great Spirit lives deep within me calling me to a lonely path that I know I must take. A sense of duty that others know not, but the demand of my soul to spread its wings and teach those who do not understand. That is the bane of my existence. Being bound to others through my need to teach and to lead others on their path through life, but seeking the solace of a forest or a desolate beach. Where my soul shall find peace has yet to be discovered but alas that is the curse of an Old Soul, to be forever trapped in the duty to help others and the wish to be in ages past. The only release; the written word.