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Dexter Mar 16
you tell me what I remember
the place, the smell, the home
the ridges of my contorted expression
the way I must have felt
laced with knowing
tainted with devotion
a passion only a mother knows

countered with my own knowing
I am reminded that I am split
the splinter to your rose
you assure me, a pretty splinter
but there I am left wondering
when all one has known is war
do they forget how to be without chaos?
callus their armor
wide their stride
war is my mother
my father, the tide
take heed, I am the land that forms when the fire of the earth touches the sea
Dexter Dec 2020
the leaves shushed each other on the day we met
and although I was held together by a string which I did not acquire on my own
I vowed to always listen
and so I did
sweet mother envoked a stillness within me
of knowing all shall be well
should I surrender
knowing my rowing does very little to persuade such stubborn winds
I release
truthfully, I do not know if things will end well
or if worlds should collide this time tomorrow
but in both instances I have rid myself of a burden I have shouldered in vain
so in good conscience, I am still
for the first time in a long time
perfectly still
Dexter Nov 2020
what becomes of us when the sounds of wailing fade ever so slightly into the back of the picture frame
we no longer remember days by infectious
laughter or shy smiles
these are the days
death tolls become us
flesh becomes a number
lulled into obedience
humming rhythmically
fear plagues our moments of sobriety
and then some
and here we stand
and afraid
and what else?
Dexter Oct 2020
steady and faulty we win the race
I have known few men who won with grace
I see glimpses of myself in every failure
and reflections of regret in every triumph.
I so wish the human experience was less nuanced than it is
if things happened just so
and people remained as they are
waiting for you to flip the page.
what oyster knives lay flat against cold tiles of realization
and why does the world not mourn half artists who favored the race over grace.
Dexter Jun 2020
we are abandoned
left with sticks made out of pens
and stones that look like paper
we are whole
and utterly broken
we mend our bones with stones
forget about paper

we learn what it means to be incomplete
what flame does to paper
that bones mend, and pens love the company of paper

we rush to collect our inked paper
these blessings stitched, our children will learn by means of our strife, not theirs

we wake up slightly less broken
even so, we write
and when ink runs dry
we write with tears
then with blood
we break our bones for pens
and tear our clothes for paper

the history we live
the labor of our youth
it will be written by us
not you
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