Obsidian And The Shaman

The wise one came,

Scouring the ground,

For that which long eluded her,

Hidden in the bosom of the fiery god.

For who can tell

Where wisdom is to be found,

Where spirits dwell,

And a thousand cries are long bound?

The dying mists mar

The sepulchral nothingness

That followed in the wake

Of the fiery god’s wrath.

Deep cracks lace out

From the jagged black glass,

The face of dimensions and realms untouched,

Of worlds and wild spirits unknown, thrown open.

They call out to the girl

As she crawls up the slopes,

To open herself,

And leave all behind.