Made to again run with me.
Slashing past branch and vine,
leaf and twig;
The sharp corners come upon
us as we turn with grace;
the precision of scalpels,
and mirrors, like a raging river
made peaceful.
The horizon dips beneath mountain
tops, while the wind sweeps across
our bodies, cooling our brow,
drying our flesh.
We dart like birds of prey
through the canopy. Our shadows
cut beautiful forms against
the untrampled scenic landscapes
unfurling below.

The sun at our backs, the moon
before us; we've become catalysts
for the movement, the new days
ahead; the memories of what
has passed in our stead.
Motionless no more,
our voices expel upwards, given
wings by foresight, our power,
and might.

Swept away, avoiding precarious
terrain; landing at the doorsteps
of ears that once dared not listen.
Now they too are becoming filled
by the cacophonous wails, bellows,
and tears of adventure.
Their once stagnant souls ignite,
for greater insight, grandiose
perspective.

They're beginning to hear the roar
of undiscovered rivers of thought,
the hiss of yet untamed mountains
of complacence. Imaginations
scream to life, action bubbles in
their blood.
Onrush of emotion, the unspoken
words of panic, betrayal, and ignorance
manifest into tears for still
lifeless forms.
Grasp onto hands that are running
to again bring to life what
has yet to be seen, from mouths not
yet encouraged to speak.

Peer into the eyes of existence;
shackled no more, our many ways
of endless transformation.

Throw down your predetermined
notions, sheath your convoluted
accusations. Hear instead the
crashing oceans of discontent,
shaping rock into footholds.
Hear the whisper of tall grass
swaying in rhythm with the enemy
they conceal, formulating, and
engineering an end to their eternal
heart beat.
Made to again run with me, our
boundless vivacity, our forever
expedition.

Rising from between phylum,
from vein to flesh;
subcutaneous to cutaneous.
A reminder long since forgot,
"I have a voice, I have thought."
Arising to glisten its sharpened
teeth against the ambiance of moon
and star, sun and cloud.

From the base of hairlines,
to the nape of neck,
sculpted shoulders take shape.
To fatigued arms browning in
accusation to a committed work
the cowards will not overcome.
Shoulder blades to channel of
back, down to the rim of stained
in stench trousers; down to painted
in blood and mud boots!
The Revival!

Animalistic urges to again
strike unprovoked, to perch oneself
on high viewing all as consumable
yield.
Soul and trust,
effort and angst.

A strengthening pulse beats
sound to life, from behind improperly
protected cochlea.
Shaking rustic chords free of
their complacent sediment to again
speak, speak the words of those
whose breath has been taken.

Lest the warrior, the leader,
the cook, the house keeper,
the accountant, the clerk, the postman,
the janitor, the mechanic, rest forever;
yet they steal themselves away some time;
by candlelight, flashlight, moonlight,
or campfire, nursing their childlike
exuberance for expression back to
true virility.

Passivity bites against bit and bridle.
Now screaming passed smashed, and
cracked teeth, "They're coming!"
All captured by heads against cold
ground, soft grass, burning concrete,
and propped pillow.
A dream coming to life once again
rising against flesh to cool our
forever ascent.

"Don't make sympathy your resistance."
CdeM