In the abyss I look at my solitude
Raising my empty hands in a foreign land, questioning the works of my ancestors.
The blood of my ancestors seep through pale skin to stain innocuous fingers-
Why does the blood of my ancestors seep through pale skin to stain my innocence with their lashes-
Why does the blood of their sin remain?
No one sees my huckled back caved in caged thoughts caged in minds of today between red hands
Because the dripping roses show the faces of my ancestors between veiled fingers;
the raised hands expressions of victory as shining eyes reflect privilege-
Unearned.
All the hate is unearned.
You see me aside watching with a smile, present to participate, with a colder light in my eyes
And unfortunately you see pity in yearning orbs and solitude as pride...not loss and dissonance.
How can I love you?
Again?
How to hold you?
Again?
Without fear that my hands would leave marks guilty on your skin
But rather absorb it like the Earth to our toxin in absolution loving,
Sanctifying....
Can I hold you?
Again?
Can I one day be strong enough to believe that my skin seeps my own blood and pale glory is not oppression in my eyes?
In...your eyes?
A/N: Inspired by my Multiculturalism Class' reading Mosher et al.'s 2017 article on Cultural Humility.
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Ambience (Poetry Book 2)
PoetryRandom thoughts from different moments on various things for infinite reasons. This is my second book of poetry with the first, "Poems of the Atmos". Unless mentioned otherwise, none of the photos are mine. The book cover was made by me with Canva a...
