Native Tongues

I once had a spirit, That would cry, Livid. A soundless screamer, A sleepless dreamer. A cowardly warrior, A body-less barrier. A sharp taste of rum, A native tongue. When the soul spoke, It took what it broke, What it hated, what it provoked. All the soul ever wanted, Was a little bit of hope. Procrastinating future for past would never come, Holding back words from a native tongue.