Skin, soft and fragile as marigold petals
Bones thin as papier-mâché
Holding the shape of a person I love
Holding together our bodies of clay

Candles, dimming light behind the eyes
Weary wind slipping through parched lips
Sweet and weak the voice of a person I love
Spirit readying voyage on vanishing ships

I think I'm the only one
stuck here like this,
unlike anyone!
It may seem like sometimes
I am the Rock!
& not even Fire can hurt me.
But like everyone
Every night, I look above,
for the spark of miracle
wishing the world to be better.

1.
It felt like crossing      
all things cross, right?

2.
It has been many years since we have walked through that tunnel
and into this land
where the hands of spirits became the wings of ancestors over us
and the quiet inner gust became an orator of truth  

Truthteller could you tell me again my name
They have given me so many on the northern journey,
disguised me to be one of the multiple
flickering pixels on a television screen

eyes darker than their own
but who has darker eyes

3.
She is the barefoot daughter of the Pachamama
womxn of many tongues
womxn whose tongue was not cut off
so you hear her sing when the sun comes up
and sway with the blades of grass
onward in the direction of the voices and the wind
and all the things that cry and laugh out loud  

4.
They made you cross, too
and at the same time
But they made you forget
about the birds,
the wind,
your name- our name
and the alphabet
5.
silence is the alphabet used to speak truth  

6.
They made you forget your name.
Ask them your name as you look up at the sky
cloudy or clear
as  children lay silently next to demarcation lines
housed in steel bars
gloomy and lost
ask and listen
to be humbled by your name  

7.
The spirits call again
can you hear them now?

back through the tunnel of innocence,
they whisper your name.

This is a warm day,
in October.

I've weighed the reasons for my concern
and found them wanting,

I'll make no difference, come what may.

Come, what may, be the motivator
the in
stigator
the reason, raison d'etre eh?
we
find hope and do what, what
do we do
with misplaced hopes?

we chew them up and spit them out,
'call'em riddles,

inspired by Ezekial 17. Yeah, Q,
and A
bullhead twisted to uplookin POV

the Alpha bet a bull

Legends never see from this POV.
We are blessed.
We have artificial intelligence,
sending us trends
we may buck. Upto the point,

did you read that?
Is it October warm still? Or did the rest of the ice finally melt
and let the great Northern Gyre
spin free?