walking on and on
I felt soft heart beats
were mothers songs
but boiling blood
was fathers pride
and both tore at me
deep into the mist
sinking to the ground
I ran my fingers on the soil
felt their footprints
and chose not to follow
instead looking up
found my brilliant guide
who led me through that night
with hot blood
I rage on
and with soft songs
I carry on
making fresh prints
for this path
No comments:
Post a Comment