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There are lilacs in my throat from being told
I’m sacred soil to all of the right people, whose
love goes down like honey when I’m sick
of all the silence - it rings out in a clamor
of tambourines, slicing through the heavy
silence; music lifts into the sky like fire
warming my frozen hands, cold from
their frigid glares - but respect can be so
clear, colorless, sitting on my skin like
rain water dripping and sliding back
into the earth.

We’ve risen from this same soil, and when
we return, I want to be holding hands
with those who know the meaning of

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David S. said...
Jul. 4, 2011 at 12:45 am
Love it! I can relate, and I can FEEL your metaphors :)
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