Solitary-Poet

It isn’t me,

Moving 1,300 feet per second,

Dodging the piercing, tumbling, shredding,

Bone piercing, death dealing machine,

Faster than a rocket, a tracer with

No after burner, that sends to the cosmos

But never reaches itself,

Leaving shattered fragments of love and life,

It isn’t me.

 

It isn’t me,

Clutching the end of a thread

A lonely remembrance

Pulled out midst a wall of tears

A piece left from number 3

All memories of Dwayne

Screaming at hoops

Left beneath a wall of impenetrable mud.

 

It isn’t me,

An uncontrolled shiver, unstoppable

In claustrophobic pitch darkness of silence

Pierced by droplets of sweat

following each other, dropping collecting

Looking aimlessly for home.

 

It isn’t me,

waiting and welling up tears,

Arms interlocked in isolation with mates

watching the damn silent clock

On my phone wishing it stay mute

Saying my byes, Kissing my jersey

The lost silence, pierced by a tracer

out running me at 1300 feet per second.

 

It isn’t me, failing to understand

The place I call home and refuge

Would ravage without hesitation

Make excuses for tradition and custom.

 

It isn’t me, who needs to run

Past a bullet that never should fire

Past a closet where tears and sweat lie

Past friends whose remains are only thing that remain

Past threads pulled out from the last ever number 3 from Dwayne.

 

It isn’t me,

who has to fight the customs, tradition

that turned my laughter into war.

It Isn’t me, to fight

Rickety laws made by rickety men.

 

It Isn’t me, to never have to run

at 1300 feet/second,

Never leave fallen friends behind

Never wear my last jersey

Never again, to guns in my land.