The Shaman

Brittle bones on sinew string,

Slice of beak, and plume, and wing,

Scraps of fur with ebon beads,

Twisted bark from septic seeds,

Crystal charms and stones that float,

Rest upon the Shaman's throat.

​

A chilling hum which glows bright red,

Spells out letters never read

And sings, in voices seldom heard,

To speak in tongues without a word

Ensnared or caught, with all perceived

The Shaman sits, beneath the trees.

​

Which whisper loud with leaves that peel

And splinter open to reveal

A face, that frowns with mirthless glee,

In asymmetric symmetry.

It screams to tear the jagged sky,

The Shaman never wonders why.

​

Visions swim across the ground,

Shouting bold in silent sounds

Which echo through the empty space,

And standing still you start to chase

Those calls which split this senseless scene,

The Shaman watches the unseen.

​

All at once you do regain

Your thoughts, Yourself, as you restrain

From thinking back on what just passed,

But still you turn to try and ask

The Shaman, who could make things clear,

Already

He had

Disappeared.

​

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/9qeqih/an_ugly_english_sonnet_out_of_phase/e8amdhl

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/9qop6u/i_probably_shouldnt_be_with_you/e8ana98