Our Chanting Fingers

Our weaving wisps of light
slip through a wounded soul,
with salving lips and thread
the stitching words and seal.

Hungry for the dark and hope,
ink spills and spells a beating heart,
while thunder pounds a ribcage blue,
bruised, our salve, the herbal lead.

Hands worn, the knotted burls
weathered wood and strength.
Bone and sinew, melded steel,
welding heat, to cauterize a lesion.

Quills that bleed, on wings unfurled
mustered smoke reveals a huddled form.
Chants are imagery, that flourish
mid the pain of a dying dream.

Giving sorrow eyes and wisdom,
outlined by sullen script.
We see spirits breathe their wishes,
engrave their sighs on minds with magic fingers.

With furrowed brow, and dancing feet,
to fight at gravity's oppression.
The push and pull, the dying art,
a poet's sweet obsession.




*inspired by: “Poets, are shamans of words" Robert Moss