Calling
The screams get louder, flashes, images, smells and scents become stronger, colours are vivid.
The rhythm sends me to another space. Space can bend. Time as well. The voices are real, I tell them to be quiet. Let me sleep.
The forests stretch greedily on the horizons. North.
The drum, with skin stretched tight, the figures are dancing. The hand that made the sound, the flesh soon burning on the pyre. Make way for a new God. The spirits are not real, all that is natural is sinful. The world is sin.
But the spirits are real. The trees and stones are alive.
Holiness is flesh, blood and bone. Heaven is down here.
Don’t burn the drum. WE need the messages. You can see, so see. You are not the master.
Don’t let the Father see what we can do.
Heed the messages.
Which get stronger every day, senses blur, they magnify. Discipline and order keep it at bay. Just about. They are calling me.
It is too strange, a sin, I musn’t give in.
Power from a different space. A bridge. Don’t burn it.
Nature is powerful, the worlds are all powerful.
There is nothing to understand, give in. Just give in
Copyright © Maya Broman | Year Posted 2016
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