Heather L.R. Johnson
Of my people
The wind blows their
Decrepit bones
Across my charred feet
I touch outreached hands
That can never grasp
I taste forgotten tears
That will ever fall
I hear their last songs
Chanting in my ears
I am driven by a deeper hunger
Than to see the early rays of life
That caress my face
But to feel the essence
Of the substance
To become
To be
The substance
To taste the texture
To see the smiling faces
Of dead lips
As they laugh for me
I will steop on their past
Creating my future
To live,
To honor my forgotten people
But I will be
Remembered.
