The Shadowlit Realms
| Labyrinth of the Mind |
Native SoulNative Soul
The country celebrates what was gained from our pain while the land still runs with the blood from the innocence slaughtered within the wind the screams echo across the Earth. Each drop of rain weeping for the suffering, as others walk across the bones to reap their greed and rape the soil without a thought of looking back. And this is what others have to be thankful for the stolen souls ripped from Native hearts. Where once the drums in steady rhythm played beneath Sister Moon watching from above. Now only silence for the voices which have been muted. Others isolated in their security built upon the backs of the fallen, the forgotten. The memories are but faint impressions, banished from their sheltered walls. The ones who no longer hear the Earth sing, and sweep away the spirits pulsing once through everything, as so much dust within the way. But somewhere there still flickers a flame that will forever burn through eternity. 10:55 PM - 11/25/2009 - post comment
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 For though All are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge them. ~The Monk
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