Diaspora Blues 


Out of the marshes,
I fly to a land unknown.
Neither here nor there.

The heart tugs at the soul
and calls out to the Master,
“Where art, Thou?”

Walk into the woods.
Prick, fall, bleed.
Hear the soft sound of ‘breaking’.

In a crowd of all you love,
your reflection feels foreign,
your shadow seems wrong.

The ugliness of ‘why’ pins me
down.
And all is gone.

They don’t know of the battles.
It is, but, a glass wall.
Broken, yet? Slowly, broken.

Out of the marshes,
I fly away, to a land unknown.
Neither here nor there.

 

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