Sweat Lodge - By Amelia Hawkins

Sweat Lodge

The Medicine Man invited the darkness of the night. Not for business, but for accompaniment.

The wounded, gashed cores started to slink out of their ego's and slip back into the womb.

The silence was loud...but not nearly as loud as the cries from each heart.

Water...it claimed the stones, and then disappeared into the clinging black.

The eve of a major festival in a minuscule city lit up the pit.

The rounds continued, erratically at first, then by pattern as recognition set place.

The darkness darkness was providing a lucid world to lose each self in.

An orchestra...it was getting heavier as the musicians started destroying their instruments.

Then, slowly, smoothly, a song was exchanged.

The air was no longer short, but soupy rather, with the occasional bread roll.

We were searching for asylum in a world of refugees condemned to wander.

The Medicine Man told us to maintain focus on our intentions, but they were long ago gone, ran off while they had the liberty, before we could catch them.

Then, as stealthily as a wild beast scrutinizing its prey, we were back next to the lodge, the pit, the egos'...

The womb had slipped away before we could notice, and we were born again, in the same night.

 -Written by: Amelia Hawkins  

My poem can be used for free as long as the name of the author is included and the author is given credit.If the poem is published online, please include a link to this post.

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