Our Chanting Fingers

Our weaving wisps of light
slip through a wounded soul,
with salving lips and thread
the stitching words and seal.

Hungry for the dark and hope,
ink spills and spells a beating heart,
while thunder pounds a ribcage blue,
bruised, our salve, the herbal lead.

Hands worn, the knotted burls
weathered wood and strength.
Bone and sinew, melded steel,
welding heat, to cauterize a lesion.

Quills that bleed, on wings unfurled
mustered smoke reveals a huddled form.
Chants are imagery, that flourish
mid the pain of a dying dream.

Giving sorrow eyes and wisdom,
outlined by sullen script.
We see spirits breathe their wishes,
engrave their sighs on minds with magic fingers.

With furrowed brow, and dancing feet,
to fight at gravity's oppression.
The push and pull, the dying art,
a poet's sweet obsession.

Author's Note

Inspired by "Poets, are shamans of words--robert moss

Reviews

[Rahul]

Like the line "A poet's sweet obsession". Very nicely penned. The worth of poetic heart, and the value of enchanting fingers both are well balanced with words.

[Zaliodir]

Whoa. Love this poem, it totally floored me. I don't even have the words to describe the range of emotions evoked by your verses. If this poem was a synthesis, you have found a way to condensate a poet's drive in just 6 verses. Bravo.

[Jimmy Yetts]

Profoundly perceptive metaphors.
Wonderful poetry--intricate and lovely.
An outstanding creation!