Before my eyes, where all motion slowed to a pastel blur, the ghostly hands laid down upon the handrum; haunting with its primal elemental tone. The pixies sang in whisper that rolled down the claw marks of the scarred mountain and washed over me. My body entombed my aching soul, sealing it away from the medicine the shamans called upon. Impenetrable, I cried with silence in my throat, burning the maw, just needing to quench the thirst of a parched and broken place inside.
Yet, the steel tone of that drum, the spirits still chanted, The heavy leaves of the magnolia seemed to dance in time to an unheard rhythm within the drum. All I could so is cry. I wanted to hear it to, because then I'd be permeable and able to mend.
Oh, the shamans of those mountains. Drum on.
July 25, 2017
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...Journals
Random...Journals are more of a journey of trailing thoughts of whim. At the moment, what I feel translated into words to parlay some message. Sometimes obvious, sometimes vague - even to myself. As a reader, join me on that journey and perhaps help me to...
