To the canned buffalo meat of me. 
To my consumption.
To the stuffed bears and all other far cries from the real thing
That I’ve let console me.
To the rituals of reverence I have neglected.
To the native software inside me crying out for external shrouds…
May the mess of my lineage get tricked into mastering alchemy. 
So that I may gild over all bruises amassed and afflicted 
With something fuzzy and light blue.
Something that can shake hands differently, with history. 
Something more like the shining sun,
Ever present inside the eyes of both sides
Beneath that fog of forgetting,
That I am always you.

© 2016. Sherry Mills, Inc.

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