At what point 
did our voices
become little palpitations
along the arteries 
of the earth?
I thought
we were thunder.
I thought
we could speak 
the leaves down
from their ledges,
when we were younger
We assumed the lions
were subsaints 
of the zebras,
conceding the answer
was somewhere in between
a black
and a white stripe
confused, but 
O.K. with it.

Whistling in a hurricane
rain, with our endearing
ignorance — 
we were the wolves
of our futures, 
a famished, foaming
pack of seven
billion sirens singing,
entrapping each other
by the eyes.

We were ministers.
We were Mecca.
We were medicine.
We were blood,
and now
some how
We have made it
outside of ourselves,
forgoing the voices
of the gods
for the foreboding 
bellows of long-dead

Who are we now?
did the neighbors move?

My tire is blown,
my candle is blown,
my light still shines
but my short-sighted
mind's eye hides 
behind the lid

the moon
the mask 
the mirror

My friend,
the struggle
is not real.

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