Odd, this, the red skin shame.
Clans of others…
with roots deeply, weakened by transgressions.
That appear hunted like game.
Had my blood been a search part for organic matter.
A reason to mimic heritage.
But, surely, that would be treason alone.
Or, perchance, within a tribe…the coming of age.
Dreams of nature would cultivate.
Yet, amassed in blame.
No authority to believe my soul of privilege.
Alone but crowded by blood.