You Were, You Are Poem by Summer Shaw

I read your works and am shaken up inside-
All hackney sacked and alive
But still
At the same time-
Saddened by the idea that you were.

Where do I fit in into the stories or your words
That swish around my brain like a baby in a womb?
That cannot be birthed out of me- no.

It is your time no more-
You are black and white pictures on a screen not yet invented in your day.
You are biographies and dreams pieced together in secrets passed.
You are unsweetened coffee and cigarettes with a voice.

It is my time now-
I am pajamas in a bed, with wet hair and a nagging to be told what to do.
I am fed and clothed, pampered and numb from staring.
I am not smoke nor drink nor thought nor think-

Too much has happened since your time-
To look at you is a slap in the face.
But still,
I cannot awaken and mold myself.

The clay has dried up from wars and wealth and hypnosis.
It's everyone's fault and
I've learned to be everyone...

The night is coming-
I know it
Will still my dreams of you
And leave me as empty clay.

But, what the night forgets is that,
From the emptiness of clay,
Flowers grow-
And you will be born in me once again.