The Bullets In The Poet

A child is born, Unknown to the gentle and harsh winds of the present. She is loved, She is cared, She is smiled upon. She crawled the floor we stepped on, She walked the grass we trampled on, She did not wonder why, Yet. She learned her words, She looked around her and asked questions, She needed answers from the ones who love her, She needed to know why. She was heard. She was answered not. She wondered more. She grew stronger every day. She learned more words. She learned a different way to crawl. She learned another way to walk. She learned the answers to her questions. She learned to write. She learned how words are not just words to speak. She learned the power one holds in them. She learned the ways to hid what she wants for not all to know. She now understands. The Poet now swims the ocean many has drowned. She sleeps at night wondering if there is another day. She now walks a thorned road. She now speaks the language of many. She writes more and stoned more. She burned pages of the false. She made new pages of the untold stories. She heard them and sang their songs. She danced to their tunes. She carried with her the bullets for them. She echoed their nightmares. The Poet now walks alone. She too was shattered. She could no longer walk. She could no longer sing. Their songs danced the Poet to her rest. She carried with her in her sleep their bullets. And echoed words are now burning alive in them.