April 5, 2019 - prompt is to write a "Stolen" poem
Stolen
These are not my words, not my voice
that speaks them. No longer can I hear
the songs my mother sang, collecting
berries for the pemican she’d make
when winds turned cold, skies churning.
My moccasins have disappeared. My
feet no longer feel the land beneath them.
I dance no more to drumbeats and I fear
that Mother Earth herself has died without
Her heartbeat carried by the drummers.
If I were to find a stream or river, I would
look to see if my reflection still remained.
Perhaps that, too, has disappeared. I’m
nothing but a spirit left behind, afraid to
walk among the dead who still reside here.
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