Dreaming of Home

I am sick of this world
where lines are drawn
before hearts can open
to breathe and listen
to the song
of our trespassed humanity;
I am sick of this world
where you have to tell me
where I can go,
where I belong,
where I can take my place
in the family of things
large and small;
I am sick of this world
where fervent knocks
are slammed shut
with indifference
and misplaced indignation
to hold one life,
one voice
more valuable
than all others drowned;
I am sick of this world
where after eons of searching
and countless rites of passage,
I am still not home,
but lie face down
on a faceless shore,
amid broken shells
and unlived dreams,
too scared to even dream
of my true home.

Wounds

some wounds
they bleed
like pearly sap
from tender wood,
drying out,
hardened
over time;
leaving scars
that blend into
the knotted bark
of a nubile tree,
looking out
to the blue sun.

some wounds
are not
stick-it notes
ready
to be peeled off
at will;
some wounds
they stick
like leeches
to warm skin,
drawing out
dark gold
from within;

some wounds
are holes
that thread us
with a remembrance
of a shared moment
of being fragile
and
utterly human.

some wounds
still smart,
sanded by time
or an earnest
forgetting,
for they
are branded
not on an
unforgiving soul,
but etched
on the soul
of our shared
humanity.

Dancing on the Edge

s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d
between
the need to love
and be loved
is humanity-
dancing on the edge.