Prue Paimon

@pruepaimon

Poet of no distinction. Occasionally I delve into tarot and share readings if it resonates your welcome. Do not DM unless invited you will be blocked. I pay attention to the things other people miss.

123 Siguiendo317 Seguidores495 Publicaciones

Bluesky

¿Es tu perfil?Reclámalo y pruepaimon.dirty.social es tuyo.Reclamar perfil

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· 13d

My little dog this evening. His name is Martin short for Martini Von Wigglebum. He’s the sun chaser.

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· 13d

A Forgettable Tuesday #poem It come disguised as coffee cooling on the counter, the little dog asleep in a square of sunlight, a familiar road travelled that asks nothing of my courage except to keep driving.

It come disguised
as coffee cooling on the counter,
the little dog asleep in a square of sunlight,
a familiar road travelled
that asks nothing of my courage
except to keep driving.
I spend them carelessly.
I bargain them away
for the promise
of some magnificent tomorrow,
forgetting that tomorrow
has always borrowed
its light from today.
How extravagant
the ordinary becomes
once it has vanished.
One day this day
will become be impossible to return to.
And someone else
will pour coffee
in my favourite mug
without knowing my name.
So thank you for
this beautifully forgettable Tuesday.
For this I’ve found,
is what a magnificent life looks like
while it is happening.

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· 19d

No one warns you that the heart doesn’t always wait for someone else to break it. Sometimes it learns the craft with obsessive devotion… #poetry

No one warns you
that the heart
doesn’t always wait
for someone else
to break it.
Sometimes
it learns the craft
with obsessive devotion.
It hears volumes
in silence
and sees hesitation
as abandonment.
It is a brilliant forger
It can counterfeit
an entire future
where everyone leaves
before anyone
has even turned away.
It sharpens memory
until kindness
is filed down
to coincidence.
It whispers,
“See?  I tried to protect you.”
Never admitting
it was speaking
to a mirror.

$The mind wearing a path between what happened and what might happen, until fear becomes so familiar it is mistaken for intuition. And somewhere beneath the false prophecies, beneath every fracture it rehearsed before the impact, there is still a small, unbroken part of me still beating, not because it believes it will be spared, but because despite everything, it has not yet learned how to stop trying.$

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· 21d

The Poet’s Voice The poet keeps a tiny creature beneath the floorboards of the heart. It wakes whenever a poem is born, sniffing the ink asking: Who do you think will care? It counts the empty chairs before the reading begins. #poetry #poets

They fear being too much.
Too strange.
Too exposed.
They fear that every metaphor
is a confession wearing a mask,
that every line
is a small, trembling offering
placed at the feet
of strangers.
Yet the poet returns
again and again
to the blank page
that terrifying white room
where nothing exists
until they dare
to place a piece of themselves
inside it.
Perhaps that is the secret:
the poet is not fearless.
The poet simply learns
to carry the fear
and write anyway.
2/2

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· 23d

Beauty a poem. #poetry Beautiful is not a permanent thing. It is the light breaking over a quiet morning, the stillness of a day not yet discovered. A bloom is beautiful precisely because tomorrow it will bruise and wither.

Beautiful is not a permanent thing.
It is the light breaking
over a quiet morning,
the stillness
of a day not yet discovered.
A bloom is beautiful
precisely because tomorrow
it will bruise
and wither.
Even stars
spend themselves
into darkness.
Nothing truly beautiful
signs a contract with forever.
It simply arrives,
gives everything it knows
to the moment,
and leaves.
Maybe that is why
the world still startles me.
Not because it is filled
with lovely things,
but because what makes a thing beautiful
is not that it survives,
but that it cannot.

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· 23d

Beautiful Things. #poetry I still believe in beautiful things. I just don’t expect them anymore. Not because the world convinced me they were impossible, but because absence has a way of teaching the body what the mind refuses to learn.

I still believe in beautiful things.
I just don’t expect them anymore.
Not because the world convinced me they were impossible,
but because absence has a way
of teaching the body
what the mind refuses to learn.
I believe people speak
from the truest part of themselves
when they say,
“I’ll always be here.”
I just know
that truth cannot bargain
with distance.
I believe love is real.
I have just buried too many versions of it
to mistake belief
for certainty.
Hope still lives,
but like an animal that has survived the trap,
it approaches every outstretched hand
ready to run.
So if joy arrives,
I do not ask where it has been.
I feed it.
I thank it.
But I never unpack its suitcase.
I still believe in beautiful things.
I have just lived long enough
to know that expectation
is grief waiting to introduce itself.

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· Jul 11

Life. #poetry Most often my life comes wearing antlers. It leans against my fence with a grin, asking only for a cup of tea, never mentioning it has already hidden my house keys inside tomorrow.

Most often my life comes wearing antlers.
It leans against my fence with a grin,
asking only for a cup of tea,
never mentioning it has already hidden my house keys inside tomorrow.
The map it hands me shows a road that promises certainty that then folds itself into a river.
I curse the water for refusing to become a bridge. I accuse the forest of moving the trees.
Only later do I discover that the map was never meant to lead me anywhere.
It was teaching me the difference between direction and devotion.
By the time I recognize that I am again lost,
a sound becomes thunder,
becomes children,
becomes responsibility,
only to become the quiet of old hands  opening for the final time.
Only then do I understand.
Life has never been trying to deceive me.
It was only loosening my grip on every story I mistook for the truth.
Time does not steal our lives.
Time steals our certainty.

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· Jul 3

The Fae Woman #poetry #myth She smiled like the water smiles inviting, reflecting, concealing the depth beneath. She was crowned with foxglove bells, through her raven hair. She was summoned through monikers because no one dared call her by her name.

She smiled
like the water smiles
inviting, reflecting,
concealing the depth beneath.
She was crowned with foxglove bells,
through her raven hair.
She was summoned through monikers
because no one dared
call her by her name.
She granted every wish
with precision.
A lonely heart found impossible devotion.
A dying child opened bright eyes at dawn.
Widows sought her
begging for one more conversation
with their beloved dead.
The price was never spoken aloud.
Years later everyone paid their due.
The lover forgot every face
except the one chosen.
The child lived long enough
to bury everyone they loved.
The widows lived in yesterday
a place of history unchanged.
1/2

She came smelling
of rain on moss,
of ripe blackberries,
of the first warm evening
after an endless winter.
She never lied.
She simply cultivated hope
until it grew large enough to harvest.
She persists long after the tales of her ceased,
still crowned in deadly beauty,
still shrouded in darkness.
And when she opens her mouth
every ancient hymn sung
remembers it was once a scream.
2/2

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· Jul 1

Distance We don’t live in each other’s ordinary. I don’t know which mug you reached for this morning, or whether it rained where you are. #poetry

Distance

We don’t live in each other’s ordinary.
I don’t know which mug you reached for this morning,
or whether it rained where you are.
But somehow you are still the person I want to tell when something ridiculous happens.
You are still the first voice I look for when life splits open or comes back together.
But the miles stretch.
I’m not pretending they don’t.
I still end conversations wishing they had happened at the same kitchen table.
But every message, every “You’ll never guess what happened…”
pulls my world a little tighter.
Not enough to erase the distance.
Just enough to remind me
Closeness is never about geography.
It was always about who makes the journey.

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· Jun 30

A bit more:

Imagine if we didn’t.
Imagine someone noticing
your first grey hair
the way one once noticed
a first tooth.
Maybe growing older
was never the sorrow.
Maybe the sorrow
is that we forgot
how to celebrate becoming
once it no longer came
with balloons
or birthday candles.
Because we are still changing.
Still shedding.
Still arriving.
And perhaps the most significant thing
we can offer one another is simply this:
I remember who you were.
I see who you are becoming

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· Jun 29

The loneliness of age. As children, we were celebrated for every inch of becoming. A birthday is filled with people who stopped what they were doing just to say, You made it another year. #poetry

As children,
we were celebrated
for every inch of becoming.
A birthday is a filled with people
who stopped what they were doing
just to say,
You made it another year.
Every milestone carried witnesses.
Someone always remembered
who we had been
and noticed who we had become.
Then, almost without warning,
the ceremonies ended.
No one throws a party
the first time you choose yourself.
No one gathers
when you outgrow an old life.
There are no cards
for surviving grief year after year
until we finally let go,
or for leaving what no longer fits,
for learning how to forgive,
or for waking one morning
and realizing
you are finally becoming someone
you can live with.
We bury old versions of ourselves
without pallbearers or ceremony.
We are born again and again
without anyone marking the day.
Perhaps that is why adulthood
can feel so quietly lonely.
Not because we stop changing,
but because we stop bearing witness
to one another’s transformations.

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· Jun 24

Drowning a Poem #poetry There is a specific shame in being misread when you were, in fact, drowning. Not waving for attention, not performing tragedy, not crafting storms from clear skies. Drowning.

There is a specific shame
in being misread
when you were, in fact, drowning.
Not waving for attention,
not performing tragedy,
not crafting storms from clear skies.
Drowning.
Mouthfulls of seawater and swallowed words,
arms aching from holding yourself together,
lungs bargaining with the tide.
And from the shore they called you manipulative.
They mistook your gasping for complaints,
your silence for indifference,
your desperation for attitude.
What they never saw
was how hard you worked
to make your suffering look survivable.
How you learned to sink quietly.
How you smiled between waves.
How you apologized
for the ocean filling your chest.
But time is a patient witness.
It reveals the difference
between a person who could not swim
and a person who spent years
keeping their head above impossible waters.

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· Jun 20

A Bluesky Bedtime Fairy Tale: The Queen Who Collected Skins In a kingdom stitched from dandelion fluffs there lived a Queen who collected skins…. #poetry #writing #fairytales #myth

The Queen Who Collected Skins

In a kingdom stitched from dandelion fluffs
there lived a Queen who collected skins.
Each morning she wore a different one.
A fox’s for its clever tongue.
A lion’s for courage.
A swans for beauty.
A menagerie in her closet of selves.
The people cheered.
“How perfect she is.”
So she gathered more.
Until her tower was filled with hanging skins,
each one a promise
Be this and you will be enough.
Years passed.
The queen grew weary.
The fox itched.
The swan pinched.
The lion’s mane was heavy in summer.
1/3

One night, while wandering the forest,
she met a ragged old woman feeding crumbs to crows.
“What skin do you wear?” asked the queen.
The woman laughed.
“My own.”
The princess frowned.
“But it is ugly.”
“Sometimes.” The old woman said.
“Wise?”
“Occasionally.”
“Brave?”
“When required.”
“Then how do you know you’re enough?”
The old woman scattered the last of the crumbs.
The crows rose like black leaves into the sky.
“My dear,” she said,
“an acorn spends its whole life trying to become an oak. It never wastes a single day trying to become a swan.”
The forest grew silent.
For the first time, the queen noticed the trees.
No two were alike.
The bent ones touched the stars.
The scarred ones sheltered birds.
The hollow ones sang when the wind arrived.
And none of them apologized.
2/3

The next morning she returned to her tower.
One by one, she opened the windows.
The skins all scattered on the breeze
fox and lion, saint and swan
all but one remained.
Her own.
It was plain.
It was patched.
It carried every scar she had earned.
And when she slipped it on,
it fit perfectly.
The kingdom said she seemed smaller somehow.
Less magical.
Less perfect.
But for the first time in her life,
she was not trying to become someone.
3/3

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· Jun 18

Life Advice #poetry If I had one piece of advice, it would not be to chase happiness, for happiness is like the weather beautiful, brief, and beyond your command.

If I had one piece of advice,
it would not be to chase happiness,
for happiness is like the weather
beautiful,
brief,
and beyond your command.
I would tell you instead
to learn how to sit beside yourself
when things darken.
Make peace with uncertainty.
Speak kindly to the frightened parts of you.
Do not waste your years
waiting to become someone else
before granting yourself permission to live.
Love recklessly,
but not at the expense of your own becoming.
Remember that grief
is not proof that something went wrong,
but evidence that it mattered.
Create things.
Even badly.
Especially badly.
A life measured only by perfection
is a life left mostly unlived.
Because in the end,
you will be remembered
by the softness you offered,
the courage it took to stay,
and the moments you chose
to be fully, imperfectly,
alive.

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· Jun 14

Witch’s Serenity Prayer Great Mystery, woven through root and star, Grant me the wisdom to know which tides are mine to ride and which are mine to release. #poetry #sobriety #recovery

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· Jun 12

A Confession #poetry There is a line Thin as spider silk, Suspended between imagination And losing your way. I have walked it barefoot more than once.

There is a line
Thin as spider silk,
Suspended between imagination And losing your way.
I have walked it barefoot more than once.
Built cities behind my eyes,
Populated them with kinder people,
Versions of myself Who knew what to say, Who were brave enough,
Whole enough,
Loved enough.
As a child,
They called it make-believe.
As an adult,
They ask more questions.
Reality insists On its sharp corners, It’s unpaid bills, It’s grief, It’s bodies that fail And people who leave.
1/2

So sometimes I retreat To the worlds I carry inside me.
Not because I mistake them for truth, But because I know exactly what they are
Lifeboats made of stories and
Paper lanterns Against an overwhelming dark.
The danger comes When the map becomes the territory,
When the dream demands citizenship,
When the imagined world Refuses to release your hand.
But that is not what this is.
This is keeping a room inside myself
Where wonder is still allowed to live.
A place where possibility survives Because sometimes the fantasy is not an escape from life.
Sometimes it is the thread
That keeps you tied to it.
2/2

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· Jun 11

The seams… The knots begin, as they always do, with a single thought pulled loose from the fabric of an ordinary day. Suddenly my mind is connecting catastrophes from patches of the past, running ahead of me. #poetry

The knots begin, as they always do,
with a single thought pulled loose
from the fabric of an ordinary day.
Suddenly my mind is connecting catastrophes
from patches of the past,
running ahead of me.
It calls fear preparation,
calls panic wisdom,
calls certainty from evidence
of fibers that no longer hold.
What do I know for sure right now?
Not what I fear.
Not what I predict.
Not what old wounds insist will happen.
What do I know?
I know that in this moment
I hold the needle.
I know that anxiety is a seamripper,
not a stitch.
So I return,
again and again,
with my needle
to this mending of truth
I do not know what comes next.
and that is not the emergency
my fear insists it is.

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· Jun 9

A dangerous moment For one dangerous moment, I begin to believe That tomorrow is promised And today matters because of it. But I have learned Even if tomorrow never comes, #poetry

For one dangerous moment,
I begin to believe
That tomorrow is promised
And today matters because of it.
But I have learned
Even if tomorrow never comes,
Today is the only day that matters
Because everything else
Is memory or imagination,
The past cannot hold me,
The future cannot save me.
All I have
Is this small breath returned,
This heartbeat insisting upon itself.
This chance to witness
What is here before it is gone.
And perhaps that is enough.
Not because tomorrow waits for me,
But because today arrived.
Because life is not measured
By the promises it makes,
But by the moments we dare to inhabit
Before they pass.

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· Jun 6

Wearing a Mona Lisa grin, they smile in knowing, that death is but another word for transformation. They teach us to release what cannot remain, to unclench our fists from what was never ours to keep, and to bow before each new day, revering its feral potential. #poetry #myth #goddesses #witchcraft

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· Jun 5

Tapestry of life She sat at her wheel where where fate met the horizon, a woman older than memory, her fingers stained in indigo twilight spinning the silver dust of forgotten stars. #poetry #witchcraft #myth

She sat at her wheel where
where fate met the horizon,
a woman older than memory,
her fingers stained in indigo twilight
spinning the silver dust of forgotten stars.
Souls blind to history
and snipped from magic
of each thread a life line, a lifetime in fiber.
She spun promise from first breaths,
carded wool from broken promises,
and dyed her yarn in the waters
that flowed between what was,
what is,
and what might yet be.
As her shuttle flew,
centuries unfolded.
1/2

She was no prophet.
She was a reader of patterns.
For truth lives in crossings
warp and weft,
choice and consequence,
love and loss.
With her needle she pierced veils
what some called destiny
and others called fate.
She stitched through lies
as easily as linen each with its purpose.
Every knot concealed a secret.
Every seam joined worlds.
And as moonlight gathered
in the basket at her feet,
she embroidered the constellations
onto the hems of the living,
so they might carry a fragment
of their future.
The tapestry of life
strands connecting
to truths
woven into a time
not yet revealed.
2/2

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· May 29

Graduation day. For T. A good heart but a broken compass. That’s what I saw because I saw beyond the rage to the fear underneath. He grew up in between slammed doors, and silent apologies where love arrived as a contract or not at all. #poetry

A good heart
but a broken compass.
That’s what I saw
because I saw beyond the rage
to the fear underneath.
He grew up in between slammed doors,
and silent apologies
where love arrived as a contract
or not at all.
He learned survival before softness,
The world mistook his anger for cruelty,
never noticing
how carefully he cared when no one was looking
how he gave away cigarettes, hoodies,
the last five dollars in his pocket
like he was trying to prove
he could become something gentler
than what raised him.
Teachers called him hopeless.
Cops called him trouble.
His own reflection
called him worthless.
But I saw the way
he looked embarrassed after kindness,
as if no one had ever taught him
that goodness could belong to him too.
And maybe his compass was broken
because he never had a map.
I am proud of him for surviving
despite them all.
Some kids are not raised.
They are weathered.
And my pride is not much
but I hope he carries it like an umbrella
into the future.

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· May 24

Eulogy for myself. Today I bury hope, that I kept vigil long after the grave went cold, calling resurrection of pain by softer names like patience. But the dead do not rise because we ache for dreams. #poetry

Today I bury hope,
that I kept vigil long after the grave went cold,
calling resurrection of pain by softer names
like patience.
But the dead do not rise
because we ache for dreams.
And some people remain exactly
as they have always been:
sharp where I begged for tenderness,
closed where I offered my universe.
There is a grief in finally seeing clearly.
A surrender
in understanding
that no amount of love
can turn stone into water.
But
inside the wreckage,
something survived.
Not the dream of what could have been,
not the ghosts I carried
through every doorway.
I stand in the aftermath,
empty-handed and honest.
1/2

I learned that acceptance
is not defeat
but a quiet release.
I think that is the gift
not that love would soften them,
but reveal who I am.
So no,
I do not miss what was.
But somewhere beneath the ashes
is the shape of a person
who I became by surviving
the broken promise of being loved
and maybe you did that too.
2/2

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· May 22

@prettyvulgar.bsky.social @donkee.bsky.social submission. This has been edited again slightly. Love letter Dear me of tomorrow: I hope this poem finds you well. Are your hands steadier? is your breath less negotiated, your heart no longer asking permission to beat? … #poetry

Dear me of tomorrow:
I hope this poem finds you well.
Are your hands steadier?
is your breath less negotiated,
your heart no longer asking permission
to beat?
I hope you have stopped apologizing
for the way you take up space,
for the way you stay
long after others would have left,
for the way you still believe
in something soft
after everything that tried to harden you.
Tell me
did you learn how to rest
without calling it lazy?
Did you find a way
to hold your grief
without letting it become your name?
I’d like to think
you walk differently now
not lighter,
but more certain.
Like someone who knows
the ground may give way
but has learned to dance there anyway.
1/2

If you are scared,
I hope you remember me
this version of you
who kept going anyway,
who grasped for meaning
inside confusion,
who loved you enough
to imagine you whole.
And if you are loved
fully, gently, without condition
I hope you let it stay.
I hope you don’t reach for the exit
out of habit.
Tomorrow me,
you are not a destination.
You are a continuation
of every small, defiant act
of choosing to live.
I am proud of you already.
With hope,
and a kind of faith I’m still learning
you are loved.
Me
2/2

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· May 16

The whole story…. They profit from your fear. The endless scroll abuse, wars, collapse, outrage headlines of despair, algorithms feeding on your nervous system until the world feels hopeless and humanity begins to look monstrous. #poetry

They profit from your fear.
The endless scroll
abuse, wars, collapse, outrage
headlines of despair,
algorithms feeding on your nervous system
until the world feels hopeless
and humanity begins to look monstrous.
And yes, terrible things exist.
No honest person could deny it.
But it is not the whole story.
What never trends
is the stranger holding the door
for someone carrying too much grief.
The friend who answers the phone at 2 a.m.
The neighbour who smiles with small talk
over the hedge.
The person donating ten dollars
when they only had twenty.
The volunteer who remembers
everyone’s name.
The child offering a pebble
like it is treasure.
The animal curled on your lap.
The world is still full of soft things.
But softness is difficult to monetize.
Kindness does not go viral
the way cruelty does.
Hope is quieter.
More human.
Less performative.
More real than they would have us believe.
1/2

Sometimes survival means
turning it all off.
Closing the glowing altar of catastrophe.
Stepping outside long enough
to remember birds still sing
without needing witnesses.
Look for the helpers.
Look for the people building warmth
in a culture addicted to spectacle.
Look for the small acts
happening every day
with no audience at all.
Maybe hope is not naive.
Maybe it is rebellion.
Maybe choosing to see the tenderness
in a world trying to harden you
is its own kind of revolution.
So if you are reading this,
tell me something gentle.
Tell me about a kindness you witnessed,
or softness you offered,
or a moment someone helped you carry
what felt impossible.
Because in the chaos I am kind
and so are you.
2/2

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· May 10

The revolving door of belief. The old beliefs return like a revolving door spinning on rusted hinges, dragging the same unwelcome guests again and again. #tarot #collectivetarot #poetry

Tarot deck: real life tarot
Card pull: the used hybrid picture of a rusty hybrid, the revolving door picture of a revolving door, conflict moose with broccoli for a head standing over a stream.

The old beliefs return
like a revolving door
spinning on rusted hinges,
dragging the same unwelcome guests
again and again.
You swear you are in the lobby,
conflict holds your luggage,
and knows your name
the door keeps turning.
The mind reaches
for what it already knows
the beautiful catastrophe,
the easy lie
conflict mistaken for 5 star comfort.
But somewhere between
one rotation and the next,
your hand catches the metal edge.
For one impossible moment
the whole violent cycle trembles
and you discover the way out. .

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· May 7

Midweek Tarot The Only Question: You turn away from chaos, away from the endless ache of conflict, because somewhere beneath the noise there is still a part inside you untouched. #tarot #collectivetarot #poetry

Tarot card spread 7 of wands, the devil, queen of pentacles. Deck the light seers tarot.

You turn away from chaos,
away from the endless ache of conflict,
because somewhere beneath the noise
there is still a part inside you
untouched.
A place of power.
A place of calm.
But the old chains whisper.
Demons dressed as doubt,
dragging their fingers across old wounds,
selling self-loathing like prophecy,
peddling fear disguised as comfort
and hunger disguised as love.
But you have already lived this story.
You know the devil cannot exist
where he is not welcomed.
You have already learned shadows grow teeth
the moment you kneel before them.
You know it can drag you under
if you offer your hands.
And in that knowing,
you grow roots instead of shackles,
to hold yourself gently
but strong enough to weather the storm.
Because in the end,
life asks only one question:
Who do you choose to become?

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· May 5

A love letter…. #poetry #poetrycommunity

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· May 5

The Alchemist #poetry You stop calling it healing like it’s a destination some polished, finished version of yourself waiting at the end of suffering. Instead, you build a lab. #poetrycommunity

You stop calling it healing
like it’s a destination
some polished, finished version of yourself
waiting at the end of suffering.
Instead, you build a lab.
Not with glass vials and perfect measurements,
but with a fragile heart,
half-truths,
and the quiet decision
to try again.
You take the raw materials
grief,
love,
even hope
and you don’t discard them.
You transmute.
Not all at once.
and never cleanly.
1/2

You learn the temperature
of your own becoming
how much pressure it takes
before you collapse into old patterns,
how much softness is required
before you finally stay.
There is something sacred
in the way you keep choosing
to believe in love
without demanding guarantees.
Not naive
but devotional.
You kneel, not to a god,
but to the experiment itself.
And slowly
so slowly it almost feels like nothing
the formula shifts.
Trust stops being a theory.
It becomes muscle memory.
A hand that doesn’t flinch.
A door you don’t barricade.
You begin to understand:
you were never trying to fix yourself.
You were learning the language
of transformation.
2/2

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· May 3

Sundays reflection: rest in what you have not what could be better. You stayed Seeds of doubt impatient and want Seasons tested you. Roots took hold where no one could see. And now it breaks the soil. A house built of earned things, not luck. Not illusion. #tarot #collectivetarot #poetry

7 of pentacles reversed, 10 of pentacles, 7 of cups. Deck used Light seer’s tarot.

You stayed
Seeds of doubt impatient and want
Seasons tested you.
Roots took hold where no one could see.
And now
it breaks the soil.
A house built of earned things,
not luck.
Not illusion.
Walls thick with memory,
cabinets heavy with enough.
This is the moment
people dream about
but rarely recognize
once they’re inside it.
And still you doubt
you disbelieve
your mind wanders.
A thousand glittering doors appear,
each whispering
what if…
each shimmering with the ache of elsewhere
yet you ignore the is.
not everything that sparkles
is meant to be held.
You have already built something real.
You have already arrived somewhere
that requires your full becoming.
Stay here.
Feel the weight of what is yours.
Let it anchor you
when the dreaming mind drifts too far.
Not every path is meant to be taken.
Some are only there
to test if you remember
what you’ve already chosen to grow.

Prue Paimon@pruepaimon· May 2

Saturday’s reflection: Not a miracle but a decision, it can be small, as simple as a light you refuse to turn off when the hour insists on sleep but you are awake and ready to create the new. #poetry #collectivetarot #tarot #channeledmessage