RootChief

I sense a great loss of spirit, conversation is said to be dead. I can still feel the kiss of the Sound spreading around, My North West breath leaving my lips. A fresh mountain bliss like a Filipino sister's hips. Dreams be the feathers that pierce through the wind! Faith like an oil that protects their skin. A step child to the soil but a native to the wind, I spit good medicine,                    tongue like a drum- And in this room w/ hide on the wall,                    spirits stand tall!