My heritage is martyrdom and I was raised in the shadow of its strict religion
Empathy has moved mountains
so have I
for those who could not
--would not--
move their own
A child of silent strength
mine is a lineage of
survivors of the ones they love
We are a calm
fighting breed
whose cause is never their own
and of them
I am proud as I could ever be
I've yet to see
dynamite
that could as
gracefully
move mountains
as my maternal ancestors taught me
They have bred me to be
a Joan of the Dark
Valley-born babes
find their way
to me
because they know
long
I will stand by while they face the mountain
casting shadows across their face
My blood is the roots of palm trees
weathering the scars of winds and earth-born quakes
They have served many well
in times of harsh valley winters and flooded springs
But I've found
my roots have yet
to serve me
I'm a martyr by instinct
and there has yet to be a cause
that's lost on me
My blood burns at the thought
but its taken me
this long
to find
all martyrs burn for troubles that know them only by name
I have mountains of
my own
and I would not ask
anything
past my own palm leaves
to brave their shadows
I know the trouble with the troubled
is all too often that they cast their own shadows
and prefer to be that way
Heretic of a dying religion
I've cast enough stones on the behalf of babes
Now I think
I'll keep my bricks
and build my own set of stairs
up
out of these shadows
and into my own hard-earned
sunlight