New life new leaf new page
new phase new phrase
erase the rage
and fell dead
like a leaf
of an earth
to make a truce
to be born
All is dead
What is a Woman?
What is a woman, if she is not what she feels
What she sees within, what she thinks, or spills
In her words, or hides within her head and above
her world? Is she less than life and more than love?
When is she ever good enough? Why are the mountains
A step higher than her, and the oceans, more profound?
Why, when she can fly, she chooses to fall, or walk slow
So that some men can walk past her? Why is her flow
Her fight, her feat, and fulfillment are nothing
If not measured against men? I’ll tell you, this thing
Called woman is more than what it brings
As a dutiful daughter, a disgraced lover, or a poet
Distraught. She’s the wind that blows unseen, untouched
She’s the land they crave and the storm they dread.
She gives them life, lying buried and dead.
What is a woman, if not a dream or its charm?
What is a dream, if it is not seen from,
Through, or with her eyes? If a dream is
The darkest brew of thoughts that screams
For existence, in a voice of silence
To the ears that are forever deafened
By life’s continual curse,
If a dream, like a chaotic flux
Lives inside us and dies when we awaken,
Then what is a dream, if not a name for a woman?
What is a woman if not a rage, unaddressed?
She is a chaos, derailed and transgressed
In a life never lived in a dream never dreamt.
Never seen, never heard, never read, but torn apart
By a blind mouse; yet she’s the one who sees
She enflames, exhumes, precedes, and proceeds.
She is the essence and the existence of essence
She is the absence in herself; she denies all absence.
Unity in wrath, she’s one in every fragment.
She is a dirge, a hymn. She is her own chant.