otist

Of Diaspora*

My remains are a life raft in a gale May I land on ground Fathered by Sense Mothered by premonitions alert that built trenches and barricades when first a new-tyranny's stench wafted in on dead, putrid breath

May it be scorched by mad raging kilns of men that shirked their being and soulless women bearing knives that carved out their mothering and in its stead, left tiny scars likenesses of their hate-filled selves

Such that the land is clean and all that remains there our sacred truths dispersed by baton or lunging trunch truths' seeds, our humanity grown tall, felled, thrashed and re-grown, and scattered far and away again

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^{Image: Symbol of the ethical social media platform, Diaspora}

#poetry #morningwalks

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