Poetry

Meet me at the hill

My mother came to me in a dream and she rested her head on my shoulder and sighed

“Is’nt life a dream for us”

I did not know what to say so I cried

she patted me on the shoulder and afecctionally said

“there is no crying in this world of the dead”

That made me cry more

and she grew silent

she could not understand, my world was so violent

her world was quiet

a hum of existence

while riots ran through a city of resisitence

back home where I lived

back home where we thrived

back home where the city people lived and died

I lived to die.

“My mother that I love” sat here on a hill

without a care, without a will

she did her deed

her wait was long over

I lived in a word where my deeds were turned over

for the heavy judgment

of men so imperfect

yet so perfect

I lived in a world where had to always ask

“is this worth it?”

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