You look like mother nature,
so many flowers to string you
tight together, and the fire
that bared your arms and neck
has long since died against
your storm, nothing survived.
With one fist against the wall,
a flicker of the light left
behind, you string a set of words
to please be drowned in this
holy water, broken bones dangling
from a thin strip of hope.
Asked yourself some time before,
if this was what you were born
to do, to be, to live, but the
anger flowing in your veins
holds no answer, the tears of
the dead left no trail to follow.
Years and years to come, changing
faces with your back against their
door, you hold your guilt inside
iron forged bones and deep within you
the poisoned blood curls, crying out for
more, a shrill desperation in its flow.
And even if with whispers you promise
to be responsible for the chaos,
to hold strong onto every bitter
devotion, we know that in the dying
of your voice their pleasure grows
into heavy limbs and loose tongues.
Cruel and violent their feet move
slowly across the ashes of your skin,
stained hands holding onto your neck,
anchoring their whole weight on your bare
shoulders and holding tight to mercy,
letting sinister thoughts trail down your back.
They had never wanted to believe it,
but in the shadows of your eyes they
see the deadly truth of the life so
carefully constructed out of stones,
the vines coming from your lungs and out
of your chest cling to every silenced word.
You are made of fire, flowers pressed to
dusty pages filled with truth, and not even
the most vicious storms can tame the dreams
that cover your skin, so free with decision and
a fearsome wonder. Once, twice, dream of anger
and justice to shape the earth beneath your feet.