motsoalle
it’s not a hiding place i built
but an encampment where i concentrate on the barbwire gate
freedom lost in the intensity of the unknowns knowing—
to bloody my hands and feet…
to scale-to release-to attempt to be at peace
is it worth the vital fluid gush, the pain, the energy secreting
if i die by armed guards before my droplets of fluster…
rain down to anoint the ground?
and if i escape, injured and limping…
journey to journey and then final transition…
will i be accepted by the refuge of care
that i have always received endowments of hearth and grace
—omniversal whispers?
no longer able to deny that which torture laid bare
already in my composition
projected from the set eyes of she who lay
in a pile of the others gassed with poisonous expectations…
her dream for the accepted autonomy she never spoke of
i eulogize her in truths memory.
can i still go and be at home and be counted worthy…
of the balm that saves and extols from the peak of my inward mountains echo?
will i still be able to offer the sweetest most purest resin
on the fires that purify human existence…
whilst carrying the offerings of the dust that once took arabesque form?
may i offer them wholly-truly-purely or is this strange fire?
will i, am i still accepted if i bring the essence of she?
or must i allow her particles blown by the wind from the burning—
stay in the encampment that once had my concentration?
in that which i fought to suppress
the duality i could take or leave…
unevenly lopsided in nature that makes it so so easy for me
but honestly, nonetheless, on the grounds of hollow sanctity
the hearing, the listening that beckons to me…
telling me it accepts this and every part it sees…
shadows of Ancestors chuckling—
that my offering of wholeness is acceptable and holy
i question the frequency… could it really be, am i free?
Written by: ORIT
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © ORIT 2017
In Unashamed Négritude & Revolutionary Love,
ORIT
ORIT
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