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“You’re like a nut without it’s shell.”
Lamented, the Tribesmen.
Looking down upon familial graves with affection.
And, regrettably, they are right.
For, what is left?
After bones have shed their enfleshed, rotten smell?
We ‘civilised’ skeletons are at a loss as to when,
our fruitful bloodlined connections,
were cut, picked off & devoured in the night.
Our memories of ancestors are like forests felled & burnt
to ashen tears that fall, too. Bereft.

“You’re like a nut without it’s shell.”
The protection of ancestral spirits,
has been peeled away by evil fingers,
of sorcerers making wands from our scythed branches.
Under a dark, greed-obsessed, magical spell.
Causing our clocks to unremember our minutes.
An echo of lost history in our ears, lingers.
Forgotten to the chasm caused by devilish avalanches.

As I lay here wet & weeping ensconced within a living Hell.
Crying out for answers to Sorrow’s questions unable to tell.
I try to douse flames with damp suffering from a kinly well.

Repeating cashew-shaped drips of a fallen, melancholy
mantra. That drop & crack open…
“I wish I was a nut that could feel at home in my shell.”

© poormansdreams

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