 Myself
I was born on a pile of drums
that was making noises all around my dreams.
I was born under a magic tree
that was full of apples and pears and berries
that was giving nursery to my famine at least.
I was disbanded and torn apart
by a herd of predators when I was still young;
too young to understand, too childish to react.
I was lost, I was frightened, and I was abused
without a hope of mercy or peace or truth.
I was what I was.
I am what I am.
I will be sunshine
that opens its way throw the darkness.
I will be a fresh stream
that appears and ignites and lets be.
I was the last one that is death.
I am the new one that’s alive.
I will be the renaissance
of myself: a golden bright
that arises in the smog.
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