The synchronized mechanics of it all
Remind me:
We were meant to be running naked and free beside each other.
Fearless.

This phenomenon
needs nothing.
It already existed,
long before we were born
to this nine and twenty two equals four.

Long before our names were given,
we were, and we will continue to be
long after we've named the next generation.

Long after the seeds we've sown
have grown and died, and sown their own,
we will continue to be.

But for now:

I am tired of raised fists.
Tired of fighting for what is right
and the right to be wrong.

I’m tired and worn out:
The warrior’s bone marrow has slowed, curdled the blood
that will always carry a sacred bow,
a sacred arrow

But for now,
I am tired of raised fists.

I want to plant you a sacred forest,
lay down the sacred lines of the earth,
sit around a sacred fire,
shape-shift all the plastic christmas trees,
the caked mascara massacres.

Where there is no garbage choking flowers,
Children are free to be children
Mothers are free to be mothers
Fathers are freed from being soldiers,
and there, there is no such thing
as an almost-
human.

The longing to go home,
to be alive again
rages with the current,
whispers to grieve no more.

The time will come.
Wait.
Listen for their footsteps.

But carry on

hearing their laughter in the wind
feeling their warmth in the sun
kissing them in the rain
loving them in dreams,
knowing that we will always walk together,

even when we are scattered
into this grayness
that glitters with fake gold dust and fresh blood speckles

deep within the darkness
is the light
where we found each other
long before we could find ourselves.