You would understand it. Because you are.
It is always the forethoughts that drive,
but the memory of the moon, that remembers
the sun, that freckled my shoulders, that builds a future.
What comes from nothing? What could?
Been more than dead many times; forgotten even
and repeatedly tossed from the mud
like Lazarus, into the dried dirt choking,
and scuffling 'til I die again.
They'll tell you you are strong, and you'll listen.
Loping's only for the weak. Bounding like rabbits
to safe holes, where the light is dull, the air dry
and they can only hear the gruesome stars when it rains.