Processing 7

My story
Written of war
How can a child
Write of war?
Every night
On the screen
Flickering
Images of body bags
Children tossing bombs
How could I not write?
Accused of stealing the story
I argued back.
It was my story.
But I didn’t write again
For five years then
Again for twenty.
I lost myself in their stealing
Of my truth.

Music alive to every
Molecule, every
Atom of me.
My music
A symphony of
Trees, water, sky and stars.
Oboes, clarinets, flutes
Interweaving dancing
With violins
Layers of sound
Layers of color
Children cannot write music.
I did not compose again
For twelve years and then
Not symphonies.
Music stolen must be set free
There is so much music
I lost myself in their incomprehension
Of my truth.

Trees and woodlands
Too dangerous for children
Water, lakes and creeks,
Too dangerous for children
Horses, soft muzzles,
Hot breath blowing
On my face
Running, jumping
Too expensive for children.
Touching life, smelling life,
Hearing life
Too dangerous for children
They took all my love
And left me hiding
Not touching their world
Not allowed mine.
They stole
My truth.

All my truth
taken

I think they did not mean it.
I think they did not know.
I think they are stuck themselves.
Their own dreams lost or stolen.

I want my dreams back.

Leaping with horses
Leaping through words
Leaping through magical tones
Leaping through light

I sing MY body electric
I take MY road less traveled
A rose is a rose is lost

Cannot dwell on the lost
Cannot dwell in the past
Cannot dwell swimming in pain
Cannot dwell without stars

Why are people so alone
Because they steal
And haven stolen they hoard
And what they cannot have
They withhold from all

Do they?