"i once was a child.
also with a Mother.
i was armed to the tooth with a future as a brother.
my arsenal brought grief with the brew of time as i separated from the two safety nets of my birth.
mother and child.
a brother turning wild.
left to lead the destiny of my jungle as my Mother only marveled at my wise.
egged on to carry Her bark, or rather shells, casings of evidence battled in drive-by courts.
residence in the bloody pivot that holds fort.
protecting lethal legal bars that see saws from loggers eager to perform splits.
dismember beams of a tree's trunk to isolate the source of water from wind.
they are the close relatives of firing squads prepping walls for kilns.
you see in this wild world, being blind is sightly to others.
given eyes, a Woman's clock, a child's paths are conscious.
driven guises impair the unconscious road paved with dreams, making grown children want to play watches.
keeping time on every beginning and ending shot fired, but not taking into account where the lead torches.
listening to a fruit full of fictional pulp as it poses, 'you wanna play blind man? then go walk with the shepherd'.
lost children follow footsteps molding dirt which imprints dead beats into their half-grown hearts.
they become hyenas stuck at the fork of a forested path.
spots on the hide of a greedy animal in the midst of sheep virgin to heat-needed sheering, turns it tethered.
sheep now free to be nomads executing harvests oblivious of whose heart among them is tender.
raw, green, evergreen, emotions on the sleeves of a Mother who's leadership is abdicated to a seed scorns all levers.
so she swings Her sword of names carved on a farmer's playground for planting scepters.
measuring sticks of what carrots mean when Her shelled ones scatter.
left stranded but growing in accordance to the book of wills, chapters, and verses bound by Her granulated lectures.
Her sword limits graduated rulers full of emotions from going overboard on a ship fortified with numerical censors.
a calculus to challenge the constant follower of fertile soil and its green shrapnel from stepping outside its boxed, geometric ebb.
solice in the know of a tree only grows in a circular web.
like mane on skin, a conscious organ that sheds.
as does any mind that doesn't give life debt.
a warring hyena being given a small view of what a lion dens; cenotaphs which mark the open place where the idea of dirt being conquered by an iron peg, decks.
names in thousands meeting an endless end.
carbon blood of tied fears lacks the unifying ingredient of decay.
not soil, the lusty stone that is diamond instead.
trapping light rather than through chlorophyll, expend.
the element that absorbs the air's tongue left by those that rest on the same pride of a roaring sound-bed.
a loud vacuum of word catering to Her silent screams as they are the first sign of the introduction of ears to death.
the fulcrum of balance works to sustain growth even while concrete hangs on its roses' shield of thorn.
made ready to defend the liberty to rest a soul in the pieces of what gravity makes one, observant ~ the server of orb."
culture ~ 'be honest'
mitishamba ~ 'children grow to wage wars while preserving future fighters as violence cements the image of what path life should take. life's destination is a name. mine, ishmael. fully grown, mitishamba. made through the violence of dirt's peace.'
".....every little thing, you run gone to the station. not telling the officers anything bur really making public mischief. if you know that, lion story, never run straight. three sides to lion story......." culture #josephhill
Mitishamba ~ talking to the Woman of green
"for green, dig deep."