there are things you know

inside without being told
the soul remembers it knows

what we push down forget

but you know the things

that are not a question fever

things burning inside they are

the scent of flowers you

could choose to follow

to the root we are our parents children

they theirs and again backwards to the

reasons the ways the means the path

chosen the one way up that defined

what out could look like the places

where the road forked

the blood split skin broken

the builders those who squandered

the lion the sheep the beggars the warriors

the scoundrels the heroic and some not so

the lost things on the way the found ground

the sound of the song reverberating waiting

for your part of it the place you pick up

responsibility that may one day turn to blame

or the myth of lifting the bridge to

breath in your lungs the narrow space

of now in which you must certainly know

you shape what can be after as

firmly as it was shaped for you

will you be forgotten or remembered

will you be sacrifice or burden

cycle breaker ground taker steadfast

as the horse eaters

determined to go forward

what does the bottom of the ocean demand

what do the bones you stand on

cry out for are you flower or weed

hunger or the breeder of beggars

a climber of mountains who forgets

the valley or a bag of feathers folly

foolish waste of a dream dreamed

by those who refused to fail

held your place in the storm

claimed your survival

one rusted teaspoon at a time

in a land of bulldozers