Rattling the bones


Is it such a bad bad thing?

I rattle the bones, belief shaking in every one of them,

I am a walking magical spell, a hoodoo voodoo prayer of all flavors,

making the natural world take notice

while the unnatural world moves on as if I walk invisibly,

and I guess, to them, I do. I am.

Invisible.

Like the air they breathe and like the ideas that float impossibly around

the internet…I rattle the bones.

Old gods and goddesses nod in time, pah rump pa pump pump.

And a bit of the old, olde, elder magic glistens and churns

and once again lives in the joy of belief with a capital B.

And the beasts of the fields and the birds of the air

they answer to my call, as I rattle the bones.

It makes no never mind that I am still in residence,

that these bones are still held together with sinew and the

life that flows is still red, red, red, so thick and so red.

Still I rattle the bones.

And once they fall apart they may be rattled by someone else

or they may not. Why wait, I think, why wait to use the magic that

life has stored in these bones.

Why wait to transmute the sunlight of a thousand stars that sits dormant

in these bones.

And so I walk on, dance on, and continue to rattle these bones.

 

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