In the hush between revolutions, when the old world resists its own crumbling and the new one begins to breathe, we often turn to poets. Not because they have answers but because they ask the right questions in the right tone. In this moment of cultural disorder and spiritual reawakening, firebrand poet Kira Young, known as the Neurodivergent Insurgent, offers something rare that is, a map of return. Return to what, exactly? To the garden, to the Goddess or
to a way of being that centers tenderness instead of power, intimacy over conquest and community over hierarchy. A way of living that feels less like a manifesto and more like a memory. Not nostalgic but ancestral.
Kira Young’s verse is not merely lyrical protest against late-stage capitalism and its brutalist inheritance of patriarchy, imperialism and favoritism. It is reclamation and perhaps more radically, it is invitation. To the walking afterthoughts, to the uninvited and to those who’s very existence challenges what society has labeled acceptable, she says come in. This is your garden. This is your song.
We Are Living in Her Song:
To live in the wake of the Goddess’s return is not a passive act. It demands attention, devotion and the resolving of deeply encoded myths especially the ones about who matters, who leads, who heals and who is allowed to belong. The world Kira Young conjures is tender but it is not soft. It is ancient and earthy, braided with skunk and sweet pea and rooted in Quaker stillness and Indigenous reverence.
The Goddess who emerges here is not an icon rested on a celestial shelf. She is a personification of fierce nurture and intimate knowing. She is both distinct from and identical to the speaker. She is a weaver of cosmic fabric and a keeper of frog paths and honey secrets. In this blurring of sacred and dull era, we are reminded that, the divine was never elsewhere. To dream her dream is to remember what has always been waiting beneath the noise.
A New Order That Is the Old One:
Kira’s poetry dares to imagine a world restructured around the most excluded. In this world, autistic and disabled lives are not mere metaphors or footnotes, they are central. Let the men rebuild their hearts with the children who love them most, she writes, envisioning a re-gendered humanity that sheds its armor not in defeat, but in peace.
Here, masculinity is not demonized but tenderized. It is given a second chance. The imperialist heart, already fractured by its own violence, is not discarded it is asked to change. To re-learn the rhythms of care and to sit still long enough to feel again.
This, perhaps, is the hardest part for some to enter a love with no limits. To unlearn domination. To be held accountable not through punishment but through invitation into sacred responsibility.
Her Dream Is a Living Thing:
This isn’t theory. This is living practice. To dream her dream is to slow down. To let your hands be soil-ready. To watch for hummingbirds who travel freely between worlds. To listen to the music of children who have not yet forgotten how to speak tree or stone.
It is to write poems that are actually prayers. And to say prayers that become protests. And to build communities where the disabled are not made whole by censoring but by the full celebration of who they are.
Kira Young shows us that prophecy doesn’t always come dressed in fire, it can come wearing a soft shawl or whispering of wildness. Her critique is sharp, one nation under greed, she calls. But even sharper is her hope.
May We Dream With Her?
So, what does it mean to live in the wake of the Goddess’s return? It means we dream awake. We gather the forgotten. We compost the violence. We bless the cracks and fill them with seeds.
We sing in a voice older than language, one taught to us by rivers and grandmothers.
Kira’s words are not just poems. They are openings. Portals. Invitations to remember who we’ve always been wild, tender, sacred and beloved.
And if we are lucky, if we are brave enough to stay in this garden, we may just find ourselves dancing in her dream.