The Shaman

There’s something about
The shaman’s murder lust
That ruins him as Dionysus.

His wine is fine from the vine,
And his soul magic coils so serpentine,
But his killing leaves the fruit on the brine

And ruins that rubble he will cast with.
Making his body sweat and his breath quick,
He will choke the life from the atoning.

A dead confessor for another rain,
And another storm while others pray,
And all the while the shaman dances,

Drinking and softly speaking sweet arousal
While the blood chalice is passed around,
All of them gorging on the warm malice that they have found.