The Medicine Man
walks the earth
with his leopard mane,
leather for skin
and scratches for ink
dripping red into dry
dirt, tears of drumbeats
pulsate on their stiff joints,
soundless steps, resonate
across the eternal blue sky
for the man who is
neither here nor there
doesn’t have a heartbeat
and yet,
he brings us
so much joy.
Invisible to us,
his presence is
paramount to having
a spine and legs
to stand on,
food on your plate
and company at your table,
and yet,
his lips will never taste love,
nor his limbs
comfort, his eyelids
don't know rest, his armpits
soap and water, etc,
etc...
and yet,
his love for us
sustains him,
moves him to action
to enliven us,
and there is so much
to do, while he sows
and sews
the dreamlike space
between worlds.
From out there,
he keeps us safe
before and after we exit
this plane of existence.
He loves us and feeds us,
bringing his brittle
magical fingers into
his pouch and pulling
essence of freshly cut
grass, strawberries
and a warm fire
in order to strengthen
the spirits of those
with more body
and less time,
than himself,
giving us sustenance
not because we need it
but because we
believe that we do.
The medicine man
breathes enough
to stay alive
but not enough
to know it.
What an irony,
that the keeper
of words is as fragile
as dry clay.
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