I see them.
the earth wet with bloodstains.
the bent tree, shamed.
the Cherokee rose screaming,
no pleading, for remembrance
I feel them,
their history,
wronged.
pain so profound my lungs are long wet,
dripping in their injustice.
forced to live in a textbook chapter
the truth is a mockingbird,
laughing,
a cardinal at the altar of shame
...must min dese roots or pizen de tree
Spoken Painter
I came upon a maiden fair
A girl so innocent baby's breath could not compare
a spoken painter
painting lilies with her words; making them whisper.
from it she could not hide
the gift for pulling words from the air with great stride
Moss eyes straining from being chained to her page
She sighed the world is my dilemma, my mind the stage
I watched as they pulled words from her wrist
smearing them against the floor
I watcher her there writing
withering
I watched her until she was able to write no more
I watched that fair maiden until out of her soul no more light could be bore
About the Creator
Marilyn Mortician
We go about our lives pleasing others ignoring the words that desperately want to escape. I am a wildflower of the universe, a mother, and often described by the adjective odd. the previous influence and infect all parts of my writing.
Keep reading
More stories from Marilyn Mortician and writers in Poets and other communities.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.