Sunday, February 13, 2011

Remember That Wishing-Bone?

For those that have been forced out of familiar territory.
May it be a home,
An idea,
A life.

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I will not tread upon that soil, that soil over yonder,
That you now call your own.
I will not shed a tear on that soil, that soil over yonder,
That you now made your own.

Nor will what I spawn ever walk the valleys,
Or climb the trepid cliffs,
Dig their hands into the dirt,
And spread their little finger tips.

Nor will the sun rise on my cool roof once more,
Over yonder,
That you have now made your own.

I will not, ever once more,
Feel that familiar zephyr through my linen shirt,
I will not! ever once more,
Consider a compunctious act for those friends I once hurt.

Those friends no longer linger on that corner over yonder,
That you now have made your own.
Nor do they now ponder,
Of what you have done to their home.

Friends which now lay deep in soil,
Because of your malice!
Your selfish turmoil!

I will never now, walk the boulevard of memories,
Over yonder,
That you now call your own.
That boulevard that we together,
Lay brick by brick,
The one with the buried wishing-bone.

Nor will i blissfully dream of a return,
A Future; For which i eternally yearn.
Nor will i feel love; happiness; joy and passion,
For anything new that you and your friends may fashion.

I will not -
as much as my heart aches me so -
In that abode over yonder;
Love. Laugh. Cry!
Now long desolate,
Bodiless and devoid of a love once so familiar to its whitewashed walls.

I will not be able to share mutual aspirations with my children.
Nor will they ever delve into the deep blue forest I once loved.

I will not!
They will not,
Love that soil,
That soil over yonder,
That you now declare your own.

My Home.
My Backbone!
My Life,
Which you now call your own.

1 comment:

  1. This is beautiful. It means something to me.