The Shaman

Thinking absolutely nothing, yet needing something just the same. I have my pride, my strife, my doubts--though never quite ascending to greater heights than self. Full of mortal intricacies & predictive mindless tendencies. Subpoenaed in a room of shadows. Lingering in & out of childhood sorrows. If I had the strength to change myself, I'd change into a torrent if just for a moment & lement over all that I have done. For seeded deep within lies the screwtape seed of sin. No sooner than I began do I find myself hand in hand with the shaman. Seated around a ring of mirrors, the shaman comes with blood & mire anointing my head with hope on fire. He chants a prayer, a vex, a snare. Casting me off into Satan's lair, to combat the fame of the witching hour.