BACK TO ITS ROOT
the back bone crumbles in its frame
twisted and curved inside its vine-
upwards, it craves the warm sunshine,
aware that mortality is vain.
back to its root-
abort an echo with male voice,
giving its mother a tough choice-
o seductive flute.
a lonely child-
different to its brothers,
distant from others-
growing in the wild.
peek down memory tubes-
to poverty collecting wire and wood
for food and fire where slum streets stood
with imaginary friend, the talking morphine soothes.
into now, the past, the pain-
thoughts tumours clot the blood;
know your own knots inside the wood-
and change to remain, but keep the grain.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his second book Inside Out