by Nick Gisburne
His miracles attract the living light,
A lustrous, liquid energy, a flame.
Enchanted, pulled, it penetrates the night,
And circles as the shaman speaks its name.
He calls it ‘friend’, a gift, a guide, a soul,
A conduit, a curve of twisted space.
He does not plead for power, for control.
He seeks, instead, forgiveness, from a face.
Connected to the cold, eternal void,
His whispered words are shapes of shame and sin.
The love, the light, the distant dreams, destroyed,
For these he begs for mercy, from within.
The face within the fire fills the skies,
And burns him with the hatred in her eyes.
