There are some things
You will never know
About me
The I that crawls
Across the wooden floors
Pleading the name
Of a preconceived child
A biweekly faith
The I that staggers forth
With pricked palms
Never once too deep
A contemporary crucifixion
Embodiment of a withered quill
The I that sets out
In pursuit of solidarity
Within a fatherless pool
Stagnant waters
Accumulation of micro organisms
The I who cannot stand
Alongside a crooked tree
Wisdom struck
The I in silence observing
The mockery
Dripping its wasteful faucet
Onto my cracked pavement
The I on one knee
Begging forgiveness
Of a mother ghost who left
Her children by the wayside
This steel I carry
Across my breasts
As the burden pries
Its fingers through the jail of my ribcage
Asking strangers on the street
To listen
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