Shaman Of Words

I write behind a veil
Of golden mist. My presence
Is obscured to the world;
All its peoples and noises–
The makebate-created welter
Of clamors for attention.

But the Earth, it speaks to me
When I write. Unfiltered.
It laments the vanishing beauty
Upon it. It rejoices in the mystic
Abilities of the poet, a shaman of words.

We lay on leaves sacrificed in flames,
And recount the marvel of ashes.
When the creator’s bed is cold,
We warm it with our tears.
We, who mourn a world
That seeks our destruction,
Are pitied by a dying planet. 

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen