Thursday, August 30, 2007

The Walk of a Stranger

Empty hands fly free
as butterflies
towards a sky that is open and deep
while walking familiar paths
remembered from dreams
or stories my elders once told

Talking to myself,
I pretend to ignore the dark whispers
from hallow and rotten trees
and I begin to speak
to the crickets to drown out
this reality

Under the moon
I wrap myself in imaginary quilts
dreaming of a purple mountain
in the distance
and in the morning I find myself
holding onto the earth tight
after falling asleep to close to the fire

The sun slowly rises
gradually prying my eyes open
This morning
I watch the leaves
as they fall from my trees
slip through the cracks
in my brown eyes
and I realize
that I am a stranger again
naked and cold

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