Thirty / Thirty

  When tyrants rule I will march for your name Riots as scissors in mouths So destroys the memorial Break past the barriers Destroys the dams Memories held in clenched fists gritted teeth Shake the fists that I love Hear roaring When despots lay resplendent Kick their fucking heads off

I am a distant star so distant that I am actually not a star but somehow a galaxy A forgotten galaxy with so much more to my light that one point Poetry tries to find me Poetry is Voyager Someday it will find me Lost within a new wordscape cold and distant. I am just waiting for that day. I miss the way words coiled around my tongue the way poetry felt like home Poetry cannot bring me home like Voyager cannot move galaxies It instead is a reminder that perhaps I am already home That home is not a physical place much like the stars in a galaxy can look like just a point in space.

Air has no buffer on the mountains, wind has blown the mountains bare it seems. Walking across the river you would think yourself a savior except the river is always dry. When it does rain, it does not smell like dirt and ground a flower makes the air smell strange. This is my west of center. Topsy-turvy Strange The rivers are not rivers The mountains are not mountains I am not quite myself Standing on a mountain side I almost imagine my center on an ocean, on a lake. I imagine my center frosting over to be melted in the spring. I imagine myself centered. I am myself someplace in the west. A place where I grow Wild and Restless