The words of a photography shaman
from beauty, words of native healing
I shed my skin for them, flayed awake
I am not a sheep
I do not adorn my lion’s mane in wool
I want to paint him
This lion taking over me
His stealth is only equaled
by his roar
I quietly listen
but force my jaws of fangs wide
in a bored yawn
against futility of society
and their attempted sheep dominance
When before, I covered myself in wool
to hide among the herd
but I was not hunting
I hadn’t any clue
I was not sheep, goat, or cattle
I did not belong to a large body of
mindless followers
rather a small pride of equals
instead of stifling and hiding in my roars
I embrace my spirit
scratch my claws in the dirt
raise dust
and transform
into serpent
shedding as many skins as it takes
after wearing them to frazzle
heavy magic I hear my mother whisper
creative fertility awakens
I lay many eggs
leave them to become their own magic
I slither experience and oneness
with the cosmic all
burning off my skins of scaly dragons breath
wholly embracing the fire
becoming rust
I effect and change them slowly
I am frog
My water fuels the cleanse
in with the good
out with the good
all breath is sacred
airs to another
our exahale
the breath of trees
sacrosanct stages
so that I may sing
personal power arias
and call the rain