It Burns You Inside


of a thousand sparks
that crack and create a string
of molecules multiplying into cells, you have
been born into a lifetime of privilege, condescending
to mingle and match with those who have dragged
and trudged through mud as though it were cement.
i do not pretend to have witnessed their awakening
nor do i exclaim to know their nature apart from your own
as i might know my own
wavering from a plight of love to a charge of hate.
you have been known as many things, for i have
seen you my entire life and have addressed you accordingly:
ma'am, i do not desire to bring down your reputation, for you
have lovingly built it as one might the miniature of a ship:
a spectacle to be seen; small and burdened by the massiveness
of the vessel in astute comparison; this
is an awkwardness i cannot on words alone make.
i am your humble servant for you sign under the moniker
of a martyr: if they christened you such and allowed the halo
thus to shine, why would you but live to the challenge of the title
and charm and airs of this great word? you
are an angel reborn again and again. you are yourself
brought into the world by sheer will power, because you have
seen a thousand blessed stars loosening themselves in the
galaxy until they are only a memory of what they were seemed.

may you live like this always, in the shadow of greatness
for you have arduously sown a few lines of poetry and
spoke a thing or two of truth: whatever the lineage, i feel
indebted to say that blood, as a river emerging again and again,
no matter what housing, street or retail is built above it, will prevail
effortlessly through the ages.