“It’s 1946 and I’m in a tipi”

Tumultuous beats born to the mortuary of thought
where night flow follows day in splitting moments we forgot
to spread any sense of clarity derived or dug out symphonies
The Hanged Man awaits calling while sparrows pick bare bones
we, the watch less breed, brutes left beneath the armory
nomadic treason let us rest easy beyond the season
you knew would be your last and only chance to fly
blackened eyes entail a struggle to your heart
in a singular dance our territories fell apart

mocked highly for our careless upbringing
sound of marinets, now the only two left singing
a call to arms dismantle the bombs and leave us
writhing in our skins on Army cots with drought and loss
no whiskey for the common convicts or lesser laymen
growing empty heart to soul wondering what the gain meant and
where the star Children went to be liberating for this new wave
how could it now be years passed with you ages away?

same team rings vigorously through the pounding drums and tall lit towers
I was meant to meet you there on sand and in sea to recreate the rebuild
in gathering the light magicians and sages we have since seen but
I keep secret in this time a Hermit here with High Priestess bloodlines
awaiting your arms extended the sole protection from energy pure and light
where no words may muffle it’s radiance or take from us any less than we proclaim

You digress– I release
always the opposite side of the battle from me
yet I know you take it just as seriously
these visions tell me I caught your gaze again
by night at firelight by candle or at open flame
where constellations call to us addressing our ancestral names;
long forgotten yet closely held within they shine forth a new way
in these fleeting sands of time the ashes of our past disintegrate
as we regenerate our Love and we draw forth a new Rainbow Bridge
as I tessellate each triangular design back to the Source
the heart of the Divine…

I wait for you in 1946; I’m in the Tipi
Where are you?

The lanterns cast down, they grow dim
the etchings on the walls harder to depict
each wick we have to light has lost
it’s spark to further ignite and the Cotton pickers
won’t be refilling our oil canisters anytime soon
the tobacco leaves have wilted with excess dew
and the moonshine you left isn’t the same without you

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