Stories told

I write in my native tongue,
the language of my ancestors,
I re tell the stories passed down to me,
stories fantastical,
mythological,
too unreal to be logical,
but too logical to be unreal
I speak in words that were spoken to me,
when I was too young to understand their meaning,
meaning to understand when I was young,
and remember when I got older,
and I think I did-
I sing songs that I don't remember the words to,
to the offspring of those who came after me,
after all my own are too old for such things,
I write words in my native tongue,
lest I forget from where I came,
so the words will be there,
long after I am  not.

On this Day

And on the day they will come for me,
they'll remember the heavens opened and drowned their souls
trying in
vain to purify the rotten heart that beats within them,
they'll remember the sky darkened before it's time,
into a colour no artist had ever seen,
would see ever again
the howls that escaped from deep throats wild with pain,
anger
and a cowardliness that only comes after the fact
regretfully,
or not,
they would remember,
they would,
for time has a habit of holding on-
history has a habit of being relived
and mistakes of those who came before us
are repaid by those who are yet to come,
on the day they come for me

Don't be afraid

If you take all the bad in the world
bundle it up into one hazardous waste to humanity,
don't be afraid,
don't...
then stand back and take stock of all the other things,
it's amazing what you'll see-
beneath weeds,
sprays of violets,
daisies and wild irises
flocks of feathered friends calling for family,
come,
eat, is there anything better than this...
trees green, uplifting arms to catch the warmth on budding leaves,
smell the air,
smell it-
children screaming without inhibition,
in the streets,
parks,
in packs too large to count-
envious adults standing close, arms twitching,
mouths moving silently
wanting to break out in song,
the elderly tapping their feet to tunes only they can hear,
or smiling to voices of yesterday,
blue skies,
stretching as far as the eye can see,
and then some,
clarity
serenity
peace-
freedom,
don't be afraid,
don't.

How to

It reveals itself to me in small fragments,
mine is not to question,
but to piece together the whole body—
segmented and nonsensical
disjointed, 
I make mistakes
I wait,
patience has never been one of my strong traits,
sometimes— 
for days,
for weeks
the pieces delude me,
hover around me,
taunting me,
will there be an end,
and then,
when all is still
silence blankets my world,
my mind,
the pieces come together,
the body is whole
and the mind can rest