barrel of the gun
Looking back at history as one peers down the barrel of a gun, careful not to choke on the smoke, is it any a wonder why so many of us have fallen or continue to fall between the cracks of a paradigm we did not create but love to hate and continuously help to perpetuate?
Like pallbearers at our own funeral, asleep while bearing the full wait of our deaths, we stumble through history and tread upon the broken backs of our foremothers and forefathers. We tread upon them straight to our own deaths, falling off the cliff of life again and again, refusing to remember who we all are.
Is it any wonder we no longer recognize ourselves in the mirror, that we become our own reflection's enemy, that we have allowed ourselves to be incarcerated by our own skin? Is it any wonder that we hate the whirls of our hair (true riches) the silk of our skin ? Is it any wonder we are being called right now to lift this curse and are forced to reckon with the greatness of who we once were, who we are and who we will be? We are fallen gods and goddesses and should no longer cannibalize but worship our ancestors.
Rise up and do not be fearful. Dreams push through the narrowness of our minds no longer lock-jawed but fertile, awaiting us to plant our hearts from which true, immeasurable riches will grow. Our children will see their greatness reflected from the depth of our eyes, which will tell what books, crumbling from lies, have forgotten all together. We will, like our children reckon with the greatness and not wrestle with it.
We will sing in the way our souls were intended--together and with strength, lifting the world from its slovenly slumber.
So therefore, let no man, woman or child ask who you are because you will glow with the glory of the ancestors and show this wilting whirl how life is truly meant to be lived.
Like pallbearers at our own funeral, asleep while bearing the full wait of our deaths, we stumble through history and tread upon the broken backs of our foremothers and forefathers. We tread upon them straight to our own deaths, falling off the cliff of life again and again, refusing to remember who we all are.
Is it any wonder we no longer recognize ourselves in the mirror, that we become our own reflection's enemy, that we have allowed ourselves to be incarcerated by our own skin? Is it any wonder that we hate the whirls of our hair (true riches) the silk of our skin ? Is it any wonder we are being called right now to lift this curse and are forced to reckon with the greatness of who we once were, who we are and who we will be? We are fallen gods and goddesses and should no longer cannibalize but worship our ancestors.
Rise up and do not be fearful. Dreams push through the narrowness of our minds no longer lock-jawed but fertile, awaiting us to plant our hearts from which true, immeasurable riches will grow. Our children will see their greatness reflected from the depth of our eyes, which will tell what books, crumbling from lies, have forgotten all together. We will, like our children reckon with the greatness and not wrestle with it.
We will sing in the way our souls were intended--together and with strength, lifting the world from its slovenly slumber.
So therefore, let no man, woman or child ask who you are because you will glow with the glory of the ancestors and show this wilting whirl how life is truly meant to be lived.
