What will matter most
Won’t be matter
When the ride expires
What we leave behind is––
I want to write
But I’m trapped
My ego wants to construct something profound
A piece which adheres to all the rules
And I forget what I really want to say
I neglect how I really feel.
I yearn for the past,
Like a burnt forest, forever colourless.
If I were a kitten
the world would be smitten
but I am a seven year old war-bitten
little honey-eyed girl
Locked up in detention.
I turn, bidding to see life, and whenever I do
I see pain and poverty, hurt and hunger, labour and liquidation
But instead, I adore but these, infinite sensations
I like to descry a wildflower, gentle
I have never seen a flower give birth
But I have seen mothers separated from their offspring
I like to touch the lilies and feel their coarse and supple silk
I have never seen a flower make love
But I have seen lovers hung from ropes, forgotten
I like to taste the rainwater left on the bracts overnight
I have never seen a flower so thirsty, it begs to die
But I have seen children ripped by a sniper’s tender bullet and sinter
I like to listen to the soft wedding bell melodies created by the petals as they marry the grass
I have never seen snow bury a flower in cold blood
But I have seen powder detonate and deliberately rob the soul of a lover
From next Summer:
I will turn and accept life is full of these unfair stories.
I wish it weren’t like this.
But I’ve learnt these injustices harden my flower.