I was alive this morning.
The jade-green land rose
among silk-laden fingers,
sprang to life by woven hands,
passed down from mother to child.
Thereafter a child to ghost.
Blossoming from the
iron seed sowed within me;
plucked free as the ripened fruit
from this now snow fallen dream.
I was alive this morning.
But I’ve descended
into night; the stars rended
from life. Strife becomes a being
to burn our hearts into stone.
This spirit is a keepsake,
A shadow of history;
A home rebuilt on the soil
of bones, hollowed of dreams, faces
pocked with our proud scars.