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The Healing Of Stolen Beings

Poem

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I live with the changes of each week in passing,

Facing the broken stories of what was erased from my grandparent’s tongues,

Finding the hurt tattooed to my back with no way to heal it,

Trying to understand the crisis that breathes itself to the honey coated life,

That I live with in tiptoe steps of a wounded soul in hope.

Where I have words, they steal them with an iron knife,

Edged with poison and poor man’s tears,

To find and slice the pieces of a night sky,

That I’d hidden within me,

Protecting the littlest of happiness mustered,

From broken homes and unnoticed pained eyes,

To know that safety and stability is within me,

To find it in the dark of nights,

And when facing the devil in the face and saying,

“Not a day that it’ll ever happen, beasty, so stay in your corner slice,

Taken from the shadow of working people.”

I would find the antidote of all souls,

Put it into large balls of balloons, popping them over every town,

As I ride a red and white striped hot-air balloon,

High above with the moon and stars as my witnesses,

All at my side,

Returning to the lost and stolen to a hope,

Questioning if they ever had it.

I would bring a star from the heavens,

To bribe the shreds of me,

Shaping it into a cocoon wrapped in the threads,

That of the water and the moon,

Trying to make peace with the happiness that people try to sap away,

For help is long and never, so to help,

They take to find the peace I try to offer with the sparse of solace

That I’ll never have.

A shadow-burnt moon, the only piece listening to me,

The questions about what is happening,

The things of evil, always watching and stalking,

All that I can do,

Is calling to a confronting place and a death,

Finding death, an easy counterpart for life,

Was too convenient, too easy to relate to.

So it landed to find it,

Where do you find your mortality incased in

When all you find is death,

How so would you find more than what is and what could be?

All of it that we know, makes none the sense,

None of the heart, nor the experiences,

However easy and plentiful, the person that would,

They would only be followed,

The raw and real is too close for comfort,

The delusion makes for a joyous ride,

I find it, empty and overbearing,

Drawing all the things that lay only to be hidden,

Only saved for the occasion of the world,

Breaking,

And so, here we go,

With the chance of healing.

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