Where do the words go in our dreams?
Do they walk the shrouded banks of memory –
placed there on faded tombstones
to defend centuries of violence and bloodshed.
Or do they ride the endless streams instead –
searching for unpanned treasure
to map for our children, who might
also stumble in their dreams.
The words becoming lost and angry
as we slowly wake up to the damage done –
screaming at the world in protest, unable
to tell truth from lies, friend from foe.
Do we want to own those words,
running scared and firing at random –
blaming others for another senseless act
when it’s too late, our after sight sealed in tears.
Are we bound by those words
passed down by our ancestors, or can we silence them?
Perhaps the answer waits in our dream
for a new discourse born of love.
Born of love to create new stories
for our children – different in form and verse,
owning our words and their future.
Or – are we destined to repeat the same words?
©Brenda Baker 2016