Now, that yesterdays peel away like sunburnt skin,

the scent of rain softens my angry, sharp-edged soul


My veins of river water, my clay flesh, my bones made of sin

pulled by the undertow of the past, a puppet of confusion, sorrow


Pulsing, melting, growing, I swear I try to make sense…

Oh, ignorant days, bright and happy, like the daylilies


My grandma used to tell me stories, about enchanted roses;

of ancient bushes with pink bloom, crimson vines, black fruits.


Before she knew, she gave me the gift of earth, and the magic of plants.

She gave me memories, generations before my birth, my roots in time.


I know those dreams when the sky glows with starlight and patterns.

I fly. I see. I think, like never before. Nobody said I couldn’t be happy.


The darkness and the chilliness make up the space I move through.

Pained, my rigid puppet body knows the cold, the inequity, the empty.


I thought it is the common language, between me and the world;

that I only could be heard, if my words were cold, empty, and pained.


Now, that I let the past die, my ragged mind remains silent for hours,

Allowing this clay puppet to become – slowly, gradually – a suitable home.

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