Barbaric Yawps

My mind is tribal, I hunt in the mud and slurry, I track the stars in a wooden chariot made from the ribs of a blood-clan crib. My thoughts are armored, yet as articulated as any youthful flesh, they cannot be washed, or manipulated, I have an ax for every hand against them, a caress for those who choose to fight on the battlefield of inspiring ideas, a painted arrow and shield to defend the commandments of ever-mutating gods. A green tree within a high mountain is my mind, a solar flare of endless creation are my barbaric prayers, the same orisons that now civilize the corrupt and morally spent. I am the heart of existence, my tribal markings cannot be scrubbed away, by smooth-skulled manikins or the slick prattle of any grandiose legion.