All the Why’s (Hour 2)

You want magic where there is none.

In humanity, whose spark is only meant to betray.

In God, who is not a genie –
no matter how many times you rub his belly with your prayers.

In psychics and mediums, who tell you everything you’ve already told them –
with your body, your eyes, and your social media vomiting.

In movies, where you escape the disappointment of your life,
only to blink two hours later, even more deflated.
Life is never what we see on the silver screen.

In music, that makes you smile, that makes you cry,
the love songs that make you remember all the why’s –
until you fall to your knees.

In your lover’s eyes, until the fire within them dies.

Humanity has failed humanity
and love has waxed cold.

And that’s why magic has gone away.

The Whispering Kiss (Hour 1)

You walked in like a whisper,
like fireflies in the day, until the sun set without warning.
And I suddenly saw all that could be
in a world that I wish was meant for me.

Some punches to the gut can’t be cheated.
The truth, a wall I ran straight through,
only to see you.
Your face behind a moving screen of water,
like seeing a memory from another life that should be.

Our breath so easy, laughter so light,
your hand in mine, a natural fit.
You’re the golden hour of every day,
light raining down in showers of amber warmth.

We were drawn together years ago,
but I didn’t realize it until too late.
My guard held true, so I could protect you, too.
I see your face every day, within the abyss of dreams and thoughts.

In another life, perhaps we are a reality.
Paths diverge and paths are made straight.
If time had been different, perhaps our paths would’ve become one.

Time has made its decision; we weren’t meant to be.
A fiery cloak wrapped around my heart, bidding you adieu.
Sending you a whispering kiss as you say, I do.








I Hear You (Hour 12)


Don’t speak, precious one.
I hear your cry a thousand miles away,
the silent tears strangling your throat, burning your eyes.

Come, young or old, and lay your head in my arms.
My lips against your cheek, as I have so often done in the past.
I’ll hum a lullaby of sleep, my arms protecting you,
and comfort will embrace you.

I’ll ease your sorrows with love as Yahweh would want.
I may not be seen, but I see you.
I may not be heard, but I hear you.
And I will slay the demons haunting you.

— Saskia Lynge / Hour 12

Valley of Bones (Hour 11)


I have stood upon the mountain tops.
I have rested upon the wings of soaring eagles,
their feathers of silver and gold a celestial pillow.
I have lain slain in the valley of bones, death more than a shadow – holding my heart in its hands.

Yet I do not fear death.
I fear the end of love, the losses that await me once more.
My heart eternally filled with ‘the missing’ –
there is no escape from that kind of sorrow.
Living what you love, your lifeblood, offers a reprieve
from the sorrows of goodbye, allowing you… us… to move forward.

As each new moon rises into the heavens,
I feel my lifeblood slowly bleeding away.
Surrounded by eyeless trees who offer only the chill of their silence,
the universal clock ticking the seconds away,
as if each second were a single day.
I cannot stop time from moving, though I war against it.

I hear creation’s groan, I feel heaven’s unrest,
I see the blazing roar of hell.
War is coming.
I cannot rage against the inevitable, though I have tried.
There is no victory to be had, despite my relentlessness.

All this said will fall upon too many deaf ears and minds
quick to the assumption rack of humanity.
But for a few, with a heart to understand, perhaps you will remember me,
long after I’ve whispered the one word I vowed to never say again.
A life of too many goodbyes weighs upon a soul in the worst of ways.

I cannot say it again, knowing it will mean forever,
when I do not want my lifeblood to be just a memory.
When I do not want to close my eyes and awake under a different sky, exiled from all those I love, and all that I once dreamt of and fought for.
But heaven has made its ruling, and my tears will not buy a miracle. Yahweh does not destroy, mankind does.

I shall not seek another mountain top, for I do not need its height.
I will not soar with the eagles, for I do not need their feathers.
Instead, I will walk through the valley of bones, my flesh perfectly intact,
and I will watch the valley come back to life.
I will wait until the time is right,
and then I will raze hell with those long forgotten risen souls.
I will destroy all those who tried to destroy me with a single word.
Forever begins soon, and though forgotten, I will never forget.

— Saskia Lynge / Hour 11

No Man’s Land (Hour 10)


Somewhere between sinner and saint,
I reject the black and white brainwashing of religion.
There’s too much grey to ignore, too much love withheld,
and too much judgement cast.

I live between the fine line of being lost and found,
stumbling closer to the fence of hate with every right turn that was wrong,
every wise decision that fell apart.
In a fallen world, with infinite interpretations, a black and white world kills.

Reaching towards the impossibility of love,
between knowing and seeing the unknown,
beauty the biggest lie, and sealed with rejection’s kiss,
that is where I exist.
In a no man’s land of grey,
where I accept all people, though they do not accept me.

— Saskia Lynge / Hour 10

Where There Is Light (Hour 9)


The constant of time is staggering, bewildering, and heartbreaking.
So tonight, I will time to stop. I do not ask, I do not beg, I will it.
Just for a moment.
Let me sit in the stillness of a void I cannot explain.
Let me feel what I need to feel to move forward, to let go, to hold on,
without the rushing noise of the world nipping at my heels.

In my perpetual silence, please hear all the words I want to say, but can’t.
Not because words fail me, but because there are too many.
You were just a child when I let a Jezebel exile me.
I was torn between two choices, but wanted nothing more than to stay.
Foolishly, I let her win at her devious game.

In my absence, please know there’s no place I wish I could’ve been more.
You were my family, my brothers.
You still are – though you are all grown now and I am so far away.
So many years I missed, watching you grow up from the shadows.
Always proud and always cheering you on.
The what-if’s still haunt me, like orbs of darkness in the corners of my eye.
Perhaps one day, you’ll know the truth,
then perhaps I can forgive myself for not being who I thought I would be.

I have raged against heaven.
I have fought with God for answers and vindication –
I begged for years to return home, to return to you,
but his answer was “no”, and I do not know why.
My life has never been my own, obedience was paramount.
And one cannot fight God and win.

But for you, I tried.
I beat the gates with steel fists and stormed the streets with iron boots.
In my defeat, know that every blow, every strike,
every plea was felt and heard.
God did not answer lightly or cruelly.
The decision wasn’t completely his as he cannot rape man’s will.
Perhaps one day hope can rise from the ashes of what was stolen.

Eternity now sits around my neck,
like an infinity scarf, warming me from grief’s chill,
as I wait for the day I tread upon the head of a hissing snake
and destroy the nest of spiders beside it.
Yet within the light of eternity,
within the light of every rising and setting sun, I think of you.
And though my heart bears the weight of deferred hope, I smile.
Because you are a sun in a very dark world.
And where there is light, there will always be love and hope.

— Saskia Lynge / Hour 9

Wings (Hour 8)


I envy eagles and butterflies, I envy ravens and bumblebees.
I envy all creatures born with the gift of flight.
I achingly long to have wings of my own.
Feathery but strong as steel, iridescent purple, blue and white.
Wings as beautiful and fierce as the Fae of folklore.

Wings that let me fly passed the clouds, towards the moon,
my wingspan shimmering across the onyx sky, a magical streak of light.
If only I could fly above all the mire and muck of life, all of the pain,
above the past and the present, then every what-if would fall away.
Where the wind blows so hard that it dries the tears within,
before I could shed a single one, and only elation could be felt.

To feel those wings expand and retract underneath my skin, a part of my scapulas, my spine, what ecstasy that would be.
To feel the freedom of sheer flight,
of weightlessness with no burdens pulling me back to earth,
what a gift that would be.

If God had created us with wings, I’d be the first to take flight
and the very last to ever land.

— Saskia Lynge / Hour 8

From the Inside Out (Hour 7)


Inside out, outside in.
Break my body, slam my brain,
to fit the golden ratio of beauty.

Two hours, three hours at the gym,
counting calories, watching Macros,
but a Mesomorph can never be an Ecto.
So fuck the scale and the number it shows.
Inside it’s programmed to weigh solid mass,
but outside it should simply say, “Fabulous”, regardless of our size.

Inside out, outside in,
Beauty is more than an algorithm, more than in the eye of the beholder.
Beauty is substance, beauty is essence, beauty is kindness.
From the inside out, we are beautiful.

— Saskia Lynge / Hour 7

Death to Self (Hour 6)


I see, hear and feel the truth, but it does not set me free.
Rather, it pricks my heart with a finely cut dagger.
I miss the you’s through out my life, all those I’ve had to say goodbye to.
Why? Why must it always be goodbye?
You were friend, you were family, you were my heart,
and now I’m gone, in what feels like an ever expanding expanse.

But I will keep you, in a pocket within my heart.

I miss the me’s that have faded, the versions of myself that are dead, that are gone, that are changed.
In most ways, for the better. In some ways, for the worst.
I like me. I hate me. I love myself. I hate myself. Depending on the day.
But it’s okay. I accept who I am and who I’m not.

I lean against the tide of emotion, against the tides of change,
until the tide lifts me up, my feet off the earth’s crust,
propelling me beyond this atmosphere, where no one can see me.
Just for a little while.
Until I no longer care that I’m not seen.
Death to self, the objective to disappearing.

But I will keep a part of myself, too, in a pocket within my heart.

— Saskia Lynge / Hour 6

Out Yonder (Hour 5)


Hours, days, years, move too quickly,
as I endlessly try to befriend the hands of time.
Beseeching it, bargaining, pleading, placating, but to no avail.
Time is not a mortal’s friend. We are bound by it, bound to it –
an infinite construct that we mark out our days by,
turning the present into a past memory with a blink of an eye.
Nothing is forever – even if we desire it.

Yesterday, I was a little girl, playing in the magical land of ‘Out Yonder’,
a circular field beyond my Papa’s backyard.
The grassy field surrounded by giant Sentry’s, rooted arm against arm,
their flowing hair, green, red, and brown, billowing in the wind and flickering wildly against the sunset.

Before I knew what fairytales were, I was twirling with the fairies,
chasing them in and out of the Sentry’s abode.
My Papa’s laughter filling the air, mixing with mine,
as fairy dust rained down from the ebony sky.
Magical explosions burst beside the moon, lighting up the field of fairies,
as I ran into the arms of my Papa.

Before I knew what Kings were, my Papa was a King.
A King with a face that exuded love,
as if it were a tangible bubble that could be held.
His laughter always contagious, his embrace always warm and safe.
And when he said, “Go play out yonder”,
I excitedly ran to the field, still expecting to see my fairies,
and my giant guards, not truly knowing what ‘out yonder’ meant.

It was the beginning and the end of feeling carefree, of innocence.
Back when the sun could kiss my skin and I wouldn’t burn.
When the Texas warmth was my joyous evening blanket.
When I stared at the stars and dreamt of flying into their depths,
to the moon, and to Mars.
Back when fantasy was a six year old’s reality,
and everything made sense in that illogical world,
before the darkest of nightmares became my reality.

But I didn’t let go of the fairies I danced with,
or the trees I believed were watching over me,
as if they were Angels in disguise.
I didn’t let go of the stars, or the moon, or of Mars.
And I never let go of my Papa, his laughter, and his love.
I never let go of his hand, even when exiled to another world.
I constantly looked for other ‘out yonder’s’, but never found one.

So I waited. And prayed. And waited. And prayed.
Until the day I would return to my Papa and his magical field.
That day never came, despite the valley, and peaks, and seas I travelled.
At ten, I said “see you soon, Papa!”, the Texas crickets singing their mating song.
Twelve years later, I looked into the New York City sky and said, “Goodbye, Papa. Until it’s my turn,” the ocean’s tide breaking against a jetty.

Magic disappeared too many lifetimes ago, yet I still look for it
in every bursting firework, in every night sky,
in every lightning bug, in every giant tree that waves in the wind.
But I’ve yet to find anything close.
It’s a lifetime later and when I look up into the Texas sky,
it’s completely unfamiliar. I see nothing happy from my childhood.

The magic is gone because my Papa is gone.
So I envision the New York City Skyline and I think of my Papa.
I smile, knowing he would be proud and that he loved me.
In all my travels, I’ve never been back to that once magical field.
I was just a child and I don’t know where it is.
So like Atlantis, my Papa’s ‘Out Yonder’ is still a mystery.
But he is forever with me.

— Saskia Lynge / Hour 5