my hands are mumbling something about
moments of grandeur, philosophy of life
words already spoke- world could live without
why choose I fear quiet as real as a knife?

a predicta-poet who's turned all her tricks
will the page weary of the same tattoos
will syllables return to rocks and sticks
will the parables fade, the truths misconstrue?

my fingers shake upon the keys
if I cease to murmur, will I cease to be?

Oaks, groves, winding roads, all the twisted branches
Gnarled reaches of a wrong direction
Acorns and disappointments
some on the ground, some hanging on
I came to gather mistletoe, or kiss the earth and sky
Nomadic tribeswoman, a newborn deer, lost and found
We have fallen asleep together, the deepest peace I've known
Now crows dancing on branches awaken me.
I am alone, with our heartbeats in perfect sync, the deer's and mine

i was born into a generation immune to tragedy,
conditioned, we have been made, to calamity.
hearts hardened by television images,
minds numb at the sight of pained visages.
i was born into a generation wrought with fear,
for the end of the world is coming near.
whether by anthropogenic atmospheric grumblings,
or symbols of american freedom crumbling,
the earth is no longer our home.
a place where mind, body, and spirit
are subject to torment,
and every child's aspirations must lie dormant.
the world, as i know it, is an unwelcoming place,
no matter what your sexuality, age, gender, or race.
our forefathers have pillaged our once overflowing pockets
to fulfill empty goals on lofty campaign dockets.
what is left is ours to fix, though not by choice,
and nobody knows if "they" hear our voice.
i was born into a generation less than "Great",
yet it is only we who can determine our fate.