I am writing a series of poems that will be accompanied by a piece of art.
That necessary intimacy of mouth to ear,
whispered revelations, not soapbox
fragile slats breaking under the weight of
a forced belief, one must believe what
others hold true.
We’re standing under the canopy of sun
unfiltered by clouds, in this place where judgment
once hung from trees and littered fire charred ground.
I rewind a life behind half-closed eyes,
lidded by a steady hand and suppress the desire
to preach. No profession of right and wrong
will make one embrace apology for apathy or history. ~RML~