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We’ve grown tired of being pinched by small rusted tacks

holding tight     meant to toughen our skin

plastered like pictures cut from a magazine pinned to

our bellies   our faces   our sins

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Listen you old schemers

we’re not looking for saviors

nor suckling blind messengers peddling  your news

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We seek grounding instead

in the wild fecund darkness

deeply cocooned in a memory unbound

Listening to choirs of winged ones spinning

from the silk of our own lightened stories now loosened

and taking flight from the sound

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Photo credit: felixinclusis.tumblr.com

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