i collect patches of poetry
and pluck them out of day-to-day musings
of a woman born before her time,
as she leisurely runs her hands
across and over too ripe fruits.
i do not complain nor place them
in tattered and worn baskets.
instead, the fruits of this history fall to the ground.
unabashed, they line up with blades of grass.
the wind is strong,
there is a clash.
my words tangle like the branches of unkept bushes
- poetry is enough, i know. i see.
a silhouette of bible verses and revelations coming
from inside me.
reverie and rhythm, festival sighs.
it takes 20 years worth of courage to stay still,
upright.
the berries would taste wonderful, i know.
but the soil is hungrily swallowing my ankles -
serving justice for my leaving,
for my formulating, and then abrupt untangling.
my adoration turning into a mirage of nothing.
the retribution is famished yet true.
and so in my head, it grows, and grows, and grows.
but i can taste the fruits now.
no rhythm, no rhyme,
no muse.
i walk away barefoot, onwards, where i am deserved
where i am worth fighting for,
where i am buried but not so i could die,
but so i could be planted.