Poetry

I hear your voice
coming from within.
The disconnect, the cultural clash,
from river,
from tree,
from the golden nest.
 
The circle was complete,
breech birth,
the explicit insult.
 
The parched moon―
will bring the cold
tears, to extinguish the sparks
going home.
 
The roadway leads
to nowhere land. You will
again meet the wounded
cuckoo which will always sing
the hurts.