SoulMaking

The Drum, The Dance, The Tent
Escapes for people long ago congested
Discover the characteristic.
The Kings and Queens, who left behind gold beads
Of their religion there
On a vessel stern,
Any distinctive proof of their expunged rituals
Is lost in the pit of translation and pain.   
Even now, the Drum strikes pulses, knowingly, exclusively,
Move, you may get lost to my
Thump and stomp your troubled routines.
Overcome in my beats.
Heal in my throbs.
Always remember,
There are crowns pounding from the inside of you,
Quaking with a legacy that surrendered to
altars that altered

your awakened state.