We live in a world that does not feel for anyone or anything else but its own.
Then, you are my own.
You are breasts and arms to me.
You are as the scent of my sun warmed clean skin.
When you weep, I am in your tears.
When your dead die of violence, I am the mother wandering the streets past
the olive trees and fig trees and mourning stones searching in my blackest garb
my blood caked palms open asking 'Where are my children? '
I have searched for reasonable men to spare your life and gone begging to them
in places where sometimes it is clear they satiated by creating the execution block
instead of the forgiveness. When the human vultures came to pick your pockets
upon your demise, I have guarded the the body of your piety covering
it with my own.
Believe me, I will never let go of you.
I will pound my chest. I will cry out. My grief will not be stemmed
nor my pacifistic entreaty...
'Where are my children with their beautiful feet and souls? '
Believe me, I have flown like a tern over any mercy or joy God has shown you.
I have begged for coins of humanity just to place them on the worn wood
bargaining table of auctioned principle in a cruel world just to save you, touch
Your face again, drink wine in your company.
And, you were the teacher. You are who taught me this by your own actions.
Stay in this harsh universe to teach me more.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe
(16 April 1918 – 27 February 2002)
(October 27, 1932 – February 11, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
RoseAnn V. Shawiak
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(30 October 1885 – 1 November 1972)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
- WH Auden