I fear not the whispers of the nameless few
Who upon these fields of my fertile existence
Build concrete prisons and white picket fences.

Because into the seams of my bedsheets
I tried to sew
The rusted railing,
Sunlight’s watchful gaze
And the universe before my eyes
As it melts away into
Golden wind against my lips
Erasing the boundary
Between what is and what will be.

 

In the thralls of my sleepless nights
I clench the sheets
Like the rocks I threw
In the village field,
On city streets,
From the rusted rails
Of my rooftop peak
As this life hangs in the balance
Between being dead
And existing in the absence of life.

I clench the sheets
Like they’re memories
Of my home,
Of wall-less skies,
Of land worthy of life
Even when life isn’t worth living.

I wrap myself in these sheets
So I may never forget
The warmth of a homeland,
Like the arms of my mother,
On my first and final day,
Clutching one another
Because my life ended when hers did.

And even in the darkest nights
I fear not the thieves,
Nor the conquerors,
Nor the killers nor their knives

Rather, in the pause
Of this dispossessed slumber
I fear that
I may close my eyes
And wake to this world
Not foreign,
Not distant,
Not interim—
Permanent.

 

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