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medicine man
A wind blows inside of the mirror as I shave-
the voice of my future spirit. My blade rises
with death's scythe, I collect bristles, his
instrument whistles with efficiency. I am
just a medicine man of the trenches unable
to find a paradigm that will capture nature's
laboratory.
Death rocks eyes back and forth of those
who have lost their sight, he shakes out
visions, bombs fall, death taps ash on
the arm of his rocking chair, how casual
brutality seems. Rain leaks breaking over
a needle's eye, I stitch the wound of someone
who speaks of a near death experience and
reaching a point but having to return.
Screams echo in woods and forests, they are
trapped in winter's throat-the future soundtrack
of silent memories. The moon's fading imprints
are like the lost buttons of a soldiers coat, war
does not recognize it's self portrait.
