In the waist high soy fields
We laugh like choking dogs
On the image of the hand that yields
So we worship in restless monologues
In the ice cold bite of the frozen lake
We encounter the spirit of naught
Naught which has given, naught that we will take
And the holler seems farther with every thought
I am a soul sick woman in the body of a child
A child with formlessness untoward
I wish to run as fast as the stallions, bucking wild
But I’m stuck here in the yard
When you push your eyes to the horizon
Do you feel that stirring, longing, yearning
Deep and tender heartless feeling
Leaves the mind inside the body reeling
When you tip your face up to the endless sun
Do you feel that wars inside we only narrowly won
The civil conflict, the trenches, blood in buckets subdued
The maladapted, anachronistic, bad attitude
I am forgiven for all my double-hearted shame
Tell me, if you can, what is my name
Sep 3, 2019
Sep 3, 2019 at 10:32 AM UTC
In the waist high soy fields
We laugh like choking dogs
On the image of the hand that yields
So we worship in restless monologues
In the ice cold bite of the frozen lake
We encounter the spirit of naught
Naught which has given, naught that we will take
And the holler seems farther with every thought
I am a soul sick woman in the body of a child
A child with formlessness untoward
I wish to run as fast as the stallions, bucking wild
But I’m stuck here in the yard
When you push your eyes to the horizon
Do you feel that stirring, longing, yearning
Deep and tender heartless feeling
Leaves the mind inside the body reeling
When you tip your face up to the endless sun
Do you feel that wars inside we only narrowly won
The civil conflict, the trenches, blood in buckets subdued
The maladapted, anachronistic, bad attitude
I am forgiven for all my double-hearted shame
Tell me, if you can, what is my name
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