fallow near-fellow groundbreakers,
soldiers of gentleness,
ripened in your “psyched”,
rich only in your leaky core.
mustn’t we make a lot of people sore & sensible
so they needn’t keep score,
lest their stresses swirl in endless grief?
a sad world is looking for a solution,
and only to appease their own guilt,
they call our kind,
“whore”. “sinner”. ‘reprobate’.
but only famine howls silently
upon deafened ears of a ripe continent, yet only a neighbor away.
only we know the misinterpretation of our pain is their gain
and we agile survivors, Truthful Exiles,
YES...WE
ask with our pleading and panting bodies of action,
“BE a spiritual experience”.
That one day,
our hugs might be to them
high lore.
No poet is respected in their own home.
Author notes
I used most of this in another poem, but made some changes that obliterated the original poem, so I didn't 'edit' the old one.
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