Pagan Rebirth

Broken fingers clutch at the withered grass. Crawling from the ooze, the future holds no value. Leaving in the depths, laying forgotten, a dark past. Wizards bow to the faithful moons that bring reason to their existence. Expecting soft words to stir the planets directly over the path less taken or trodden Or beaten down from the cruel ages of the earth That once existed in the memories of small imaginations. Forever dance the rain, shaman, moon men, Beating drum skins taught across magical tree stumps. Monotonous tones carried on the back of far sighted locusts Seeking shelter under bruised wrists, Blue and purple flowers on thin scrawny stems. Quiver in the night at the gentle shove of a jungle wind. A wind that whispers curses of the snake. Yet peace remains hidden under the rock of fear and doubt. Run circles around licking, antigravity flames stoked by magic and the blood of horned beasts.