Ryan James

 

Nine Rivers.

 

Nine Rivers.

 

 

Divide the nine rivers

that run barefoot through battered trees.

Grass stains on bruised knees

ingrained in the ways of hurting the self.

Storms in the place of thoughts

that rocked the sleep

gave birth to sullen eyes

worn by children born to kill indifference.

We are those that choose left or fight.

Unrecognisable as our scriptures take fight

in the form of tears soaked into beards.

How dare the bare chested cry.

 

 

Lose yourself as winds beat fierce.

Breaking glass crushed by hands

as we forget to bow gently to the sands of time.

Forget rhyme. Forget rhythm.

We are the current of all the flows

nodding politely as we wave goodbye

to the grace of angels.

For we have convinced ourselves

that we have become them.

Numbed them out.

Fogetting what it was like to lay on your back

watch the skies

as psalms written in clouds

tell you that the future is already here.

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