Their words, I feel
their words
through me they run
like tattered feet
swift and unkind to the eye
when rebels come by,
telling me what I know
and do not know,
cutting me like dry wind,
machetes,
surfacing from the corners
of my mind:
memories and memoirs
far from done,
showing me that this luck is
sparing me and unworthy am I
to wake up this morning
a long way gone.
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