Layers of my ancestor
In my inner of my hand
I notice the lines that my ancestors created
in their journeys and routes to
discover and find and just stand
In the bark of my thoughful thoughts
I notice shades of pale pink grey
and I realise that they must have
sometimes just simply played
In the sheaths of folded secrets
I notice agony, angst and anger
and I reach out through layers of age
to hold a hand that wrestled with the inner of the deeds
In the branches of the ancient tree
I notice the main message they want to decree
be and be true, live and live full
linger and breathe slow as to not miss a second of the thrill
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