Not just an Ancestor, Not just a name. YOU ARE THE MAGIC, AND THE PASSION OF THE DAY, MAMA. Not just my grandmother, You are a Queen; You took the reins, and you saved yourself From history. SHE WAS THE POWER, MY MOTHER, SHE’S THE MAGE. She was a Goddess, Not a product of the […]
Do you doubt that a tree can feel its own pulse In the palms of its hands, In its fingers, then fingertips? My head. These ideas frozen in their Exploded formation Are my branches. Spreading out, Heavily flowering… Scraping against And locking into The branches of cousin trees, Forming an interconnected Canopy of creation.
I won’t stop Feeling this way And now that I know There’s no way to share this with you Or allow you to feel it too, I’ve got to push it to 11. And rise. And not stop. Now that I know you can’t come With me. I can’t stop. Not for the world.
My descent is an ongoing Process Of screwing up Winding down Unthreading The ridged walls Of my calcified carapace. Dissolving into a crude Concoction of barely Recognizable Sensory organs, Reintegrating as Whatever I say I am.