I come from the loam;

Soft and sweet

Fresh, like the seawater breeze.

I grow like the clover,

Green and hungry,

Eager to soak up the sun.

I cracked like the desert,

Parched and abused,

Flung, forgotten and unbound.

I tasted the ocean,

Bitter and wet,

Wrapping my throat round the swells.

I saw the dark,

Black and cold,

Guarding the souls of the hurt.

And I bear the scars,

Within and without,

The language of those who’ve forgotten.

 

I drew from the wind,

Woven in blue,

Taken flight to worlds of strangers.

I painted my body,

With blue and with green,

Fertile, blanketed over bleeding.

Pain comes from the trusted,

Unbound and unbroken,

To choke the hope from my lungs.

And I find once again,

Bereft and afraid,

I know not where I belong.

 

I pick up my feet,

Beaten and weary,

And travel again to horizons.

To meet anew,

The tastes of sweet hope,

Renewing the soul of my body.

My voice is a bird,

Flighty and pure,

Singing the song of the weary.

My words like the worms,

Ugly and true,

Nurturing the soil of beginnings.

 

I come from the loam;

Sweet from decay,

Salted from seawater’s breeze.

I grow like the Ivy,

Away from beginnings,

Up, towards brighter sun beams.