Obsidian Dreams

The serpent's kiss caresses my tender cheek. It speaks an ancient language, that crawls out of my ears and runs straight to the fallen kin. I've become frail to the freezing Moon, and my heart rings loud to the ancient beat of yesterday's sorrows. I hold my tight grip around the cold maize, my foot deeply wedged in the rolling rivers of the region. The chocolate breaks its bitter stab in the earth's soothing hand, and the fumes from the copal permeate through the rivers of my soul. The wisdom that falls onto me speaks with a deft tongue— a tongue that only shamans, and those who break the wind, are able to understand. So let the river drench me, and let the summer rain rinse me, As I erect the feather in the serpent’s bite, it comes to visit my destitution of faith.