One's self seated round the circle
In all phases of life,
As the trickster pads lightly
With feet of caution,
Religiously weaving tales of lies
And lessons of truth.
His breath sweetly caressing
Those with ears to his song.
While the dream fog lingers
Carrying whispers of the forgotten,
Sharing secrets of tomorrows.
Rhythm is the air that wafts under the nose
And clutches the soul.
Spirits of veiled intention
Unleash a tempest of desire,
As revelation and deception
Are spun into a fragrant melody
Lifting the inner being to an appetite
For promise of a sealed imminence.
The moon of their ancestors gazes
Down on the rite,
Awakened to the kindred,
Paying homage to such specters
Whose guidance permeates the
Shallow layer of certainty destined
To emerge.