Clouded Reflections

Victoria Cagle

Often, I wonder, 

If anything truly matters.  

With the stories of cultures long past, 

And the faint ghost sound of a Celtic drummer, 

The beliefs of my youth shatter. 


History stretches long and vast 

With the bodies of the peaceful,  

And the hostile alike 

Piling high until seeping 




Into Mother Earth’s tear-soaked embrace. 

And for what, but the advancement of 

Greed, pride, and power 

Cloaked with the guise of religion and moral integrity. 


As I inhale the breath of stars, 

And feel the solid earth beneath me 

As though the Mother took her hands 

And supported my weight, 

I long for the insight my Gods can give. 

Yet, even then, I wonder at my own beliefs 

For how can you believe in something you cannot see? 


Perhaps it would be simpler to not believe, 

Only believing in  



And the solid flesh and bone of animal. 

Then the Crusades would have never happened; 

The scalding breath of arguments 

Of the “true” religion would be dissipated smoke. 

Instead, a great beacon of understanding  

Would fall upon mankind, 

And there would not be judgement. 


Yet – and perhaps I am a child in this, 

Searching for truth in fairy tales –  

A world without the wonder of things unseen 

Seems desolate and colorless to me. 


In the blanket of Nyx, 

I gaze with longing into the face of the Goddess 

Who has been named Diana, Frigga, Isis, 

Hecate, Cerridwen, and many other names  

Of which to label the divine, 

And feel a homesickness for a place  

that has never existed solidly. 


I am not alone in this sentiment; 

And if people can feel this deeply 

For beliefs that are smoke  

drifting through searching fingers,  

Then perhaps . . .  

It does matter.