We are weeds
pushing against the concrete
trying to breathe light
into the ocean sky.
This terrain is not meant
for us;
we are intruders
to the well-worn path.
Those above us
before us
built their turf to be stone
as it keeps Their way clear and flat
as they tread their way beyond us.
We only want to breathe
the light
but instead of rays of sun
we get sprinkled with Their product
until we’re sickly sweetened.
Our fingers curl inward
holding tight all the dirt we have
in the world.
Our heads bend down
like oversized birds
cozy in their allotments
of deprivation.
The trick, They say
is to get started early;
that way you don’t get more faces
with sunny ideas.
(We thank god for
the leaden light
to keep us
grounded
safe
and asleep.)
Be First to Comment