History books

My life once stretched and swayed

for the drops of a promise

a facade to fix

cowardice that shakes

the inner child

to stay forever within-

that judgment is not mine

Barefoot walking and talking to plants,

and the beetles,

and tripping on mushrooms

and stretching to the sky

eating grass and crying for the pains of its

sighs

but I run my hands down a barrel

like you do,

Too

I feel the rumble of whatever bites down

to protect

and chew on the sinews of a crook

we are as we were

not separate not foolish

only diverted to stories

and sorted into the winners and losers

of somebody's history books