Shadow in the light
the fawning eyes to name
casting bones and scrubbing runes
not for shaman by the same
but for pretentious by its game.
Belief in self
twisted, twined, no longer paramount
a confession of the eyes
we named a pedestal of no account—
a devil’s playground at the fount.
Drifting through the gravel
the hero left to solace of the sand,
a world boxed in by seeds of its devotion
the drifting ides of foreign hand
hemmed us into falling land.
The Waking Den 