Ghost Dance by George Page

I’m sopping up the blood of ancestors. It percolates through my arteries, sings the dark thunder clouds into rain. Lightning flashes in my synapses. White dove wings whistle through my puckered lips.The robust red rose blooms from my chiseled chest. My ears overflow with the tintinnabulation of temple bells. Tears of joy drench my eyes in ruby red wine. My muscles loosen into free and limber dancing. The fragrance of violet lilacs paints my spirit into the holy Ghost Dance. I’m Hoop Dancing with the ancestors. It feels like the chrome yellow sun is burning me into eternal singing.

• Acoustic
• folk
• meditation
• new age
• poetry
• spoken word
• Vilcabamba