For so many years I have Journeyed alone. A solo Soul Practitioner alive in suburbia, walking the Spirit Planes. To publicly declare I Am a Shaman feels like stepping on to a foreign land where no one speaks my language.
The string of Words reaching across the World. Epiphanies set, pen to paper. Those ink blots translating an eternal language. Each word a paradigm of the Poets' Truth.
Wandering along the arroyo. Dry. Wondering "Where are my Words?" Leaving no stone unturned. Waiting for the flood of ink to gush again from my empty fingers. Staining the page. Quenching my Soul.
He says he holds no Wisdom. That his cup is dry, though he feels like a man drowning. Why then do we flock to his feet? So many hungry birds pecking at the bits of poetry which fall from his Soul.