I have seen them try to bind you-
contemptuous master's of scorn and whip.

I have cradled close their diabolical imprisonment.

I have seen silver gates reflecting a million wincing suns teasing them
before they make you run.

Your eyes speak remote dune tops and sizzling, veracious composition composed by healing nomads felt wandering dream land.

Their eyes speak radioactive fall out and vicious backlash.

They think they know you.
Every day they push more and more.

They know nothing of the boiling blood of prophets or thunderstorms raging up through suppressed bottles.

Wait for it.

Another blow comes.

A thousand repugnant compacted curses issuing treacherous consequences.

Wait for it.

Feel another sting clench the blind fold of Lady Injustice. Tear at her robes. Stomp on her feet.

Kick the dust with beastly hooves.
Break open the suppressed bottles of thunderstorms.

Rage forward.
Hold nothing back.

Flip them sideways in air with horns made to impale.

Snort and charge.

Break the barricaded trap of enslavement.

Call upon the fury of God.

Let them feel it all as you head back to the sweet grass prairies from where they branded and stole you.

Let the cool wind of March ease your scars.

Remember how you were before they created your suppressed storm.

Soon, soon, soon,
you will taste the grass and forget their terrible scorn.

I promise you.