*UPDATE: POEM REVISED*
Hi there guys. So I have a history of saying things that I think aren't esoteric but totally are. If you want to have a read, I'd love to know whether this rings a bell with anyone or whether I sound like I'm describing a dream I had shortly after drinking bong water. I begun this a long while ago and I just fixed it up a bit. Let me know what you think, if you like. Thanks!
Howl
What became of us was not natural.
Somehow, we all just had
The drumbeat shaken out of us
By men just as terrified as we.
I imagine a day when men wept as loud as wolves howl;
When every feeling was danced and sung.
It was a cruel trick,
Likely played by some religion,
That taught us never to honour
Our beating hearts;
And to instead call our silence strength.
The fear to be heard is so ingrained in our muscle memory,
The feeling of eyes affixing marionette strings so constant,
Even empty rooms whisper Orwell to us
and we smile our proxied lies
While flexing calf muscles for running somewhere,
Anywhere, nowhere, where we finally won't be seen by ourselves.
And so I could never blame you for deserting.
We are all privileged with the choice
of whether to make our mark.
We never sang the words of our song;
But we tried.
I wanted to howl for you.
Foxes used to know how to howl;
Just as within the genes of birds
reside the abandoned blueprints for teeth.
Somewhere inside you
The tribal drum of the wolf beats.
But every how is a beacon of
"Here I am!"
And once bitten, instinct will tell you
of the perils of making noise;
of closing your eyes in peace;
of trusting another with your unguarded body.
No scribe could ever translate our tiny vulnerabilities.
And for that secret
The lessons for our hildren are as
As empty as Alexandria's charred halls.
And I don't demean the genius and dignity of our code:
Within a nod, a glance, a passed cigarette,
Is everything we've ever wanted
To say to each other.
But not saying it is the same sin
As burning a book.
I'm scared every day that somewhere
You've devoured your own heart
And left yourself for dead.
Because in every battle
Is an exit strategy;
And your life has been a war
You don't know you've chosen.
And if I haven't yet convinced you
That you've buried your drum too deep
Ask yourself this:
Would you cry for me -
Or for anyone -
Should the wind blow us away.
You see, my red fox,
I've come back.
I made pilgrimage to the strongest shaman I could find
And asked her in riddles to defeat me.
And when she pretended not to understand,
I just asked.
If you don't do this,
If you don't allow yourself to be breached,
It will happen when you're alone;
When the brick curtains of our pretenses
Finally buckle under their fatigue.
Take. Off. Your. Clothes.
Dance with me.
The worst that will happen
Is that the sky will laugh.
