The women are terribly divided.
I see the markings of their tribes.
I hear the difference in their inflections.
I feel the sadness and joy
in both.
A girl without a single tribe.
A girl with every tribe.
It should count;
it probably doesn't.
The drums of war, the silence of peace
are far away, they say.
No, says my soul.
They are right here with me.
The drums pound away my spirit,
the silence whisks away the rest.
My warrior who is not a warrior
is cruel, is gentle.
(I am his reason, when I am in season).
He makes me wish to be a spider.
Spin a web up high forever,
and hang, and weep
between galaxies.
This land is your land.
This land is your land.
Taxing Property
- Details
- Written by: seekthevisceral
- Category: Poetry
- Hits: 1050
