Singing To The Tree

Tall odd spindly spine;
Some kind of pine
Spare, scraggly headdress
Peaking out above the rest

Sky is darkening
Drums are beating
Candles are lit

You gravitate towards the margins
As the mantra intensifies
As the drumbeats deepen;
booming, quickening
A woman wails
A man shouts commands
in an english accent
Oh intentional delirium!

You stray away
Further and further
From the central ruckus
Towards the tall odd tree;
Mr. Spindly
Has the face of God tonight

You are singing
Spinning out of control
Going against the current
Of the maddening chorus

A new and familiar voice finds you
Erupts out in heavenly song
And you stand in line
With Mr. Spindly

Your bare feet in the dewey grass of night
He looks at you beaming
The mad lady singing
Against the rhythm of the drums
Impervious tuning

The people are on the ground now
Hammering the soil
Their white skinned hands mimicking those from other places
Who know what they are doing
Who never forgot the feeling
Their wailing and guttural sounds
Unassisted by substances
Revelry in the unraveling

"Aaah, aaah, aaah"
With all your heart you sing
To God; Mr. Spindly
Communing with the divine
In this strange tree

There is no crescendo
You have little doubt
The divine is wringing you out

"Help me to love"
You join your hands in prayer
"Help me to love to love to love"
You sing, you sway

The people are beating the ground
And the candlelight flickers
The man with the english accent
Continues to lead the show
Purveying demands
To the crowd of wayward seekers

You wonder does anyone notice you
Singing alone at the edge of the field
Your moment with God
(Which probably ended in that moment)

You go to join the pale melee
of rasta-singers
You fall to the ground
In the tent of howls
Flickering candlelight
You beat your hands
To the cold mud slab

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