kai

Such a sad thing, the passing of time. With its grandiose promises of infinite relevance, And its oaths to never fade, never age. And yet, that is all it seems to do, time.

Ivory cracks, and ink turns to faint mist. The sunlight seeps through my faint lace curtains, Passed down from my mother's mother's father, Who bought them at a flea market just before passing away in a ditch somewhere.

A string of red beads, bought off of some kitschy online store Adorns my sister's wrist, and I can't help but think of the women, Who donned their red coral shields, In times only history can recall.

I cannot help but think of Those silent whisperers, As I watch the imported culture darken on my fingertips, The curves and twists of my pen so similar to their runes.

A white shawl coats my neck, it's silky manufactured flowers A reminder of where I come from. From a world That centuries ago would shun my short-cut hair, But appraise my freedom and strength.

A whole world, stored in ink, Ink that slowly turns to faint mist, And imported ivory buttons on recreational Memorabilia. A world, long gone,

But shared, passed on, From mother, to daughter, to son, On and on and on, And with each generation that passes, warped,

Until it perhaps no longer resembles what it used to. But oh, what a beautiful world it truly is. And my half-foreign soul cannot help but sit in wonder At the timeless iridescence of it all.

My half foreign soul Longs for a szeptucha, a guślarz, to believe In something more, something older, Old as the leszy in the forest,

As old as karkonosz, as Baba Jaga, as Weles, And when my bones grow just as old, it hopes To burn the way the ancients did, And to become ink –

The DMs:

unicorn mike. stay with me now.