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.
Gathering at my feet like forgotten fall leaves,
are the seasons of no reprieve.
Keeping my inner circle, oh, so, tight.
So much so, it becomes difficult to breathe
against all that might.
With time and it’s distance being so tightly wound.
No familiar footing can be found.
I had once heard of a gentle people…
But then I would ask myself,
I had also heard of single tribes…
deep in a plot of far forests.
Of forbidding those travelers seeking spiritual rest.
It is my patronizing ways that
defend my self depreciating days.
Mine is a recipe that can only be made one way.
Mine is a handful of solo clans.
Mine is nothing but wind blown pride.
Looking at but never understanding the other side.