My Soul is Three Generations Old

My soul is three generations old

It is the disorganized boss replicating my grandparents issues in a misguided attempt to roleplay their solutions,

But that’s so easily forgiven knowing that

It struggles to find belonging in the reality of violent diaspora,

It’s not yet ready to struggle with peace

Instead it’s so deeply resolved towards daily effort that,

relaxing or joy

feel like sins against nature,

Will I lay its weary bones to rest?

Bone of my bone, tear of my tear, can I heal your wounded heart?

Can I let your scarred lungs reach wide for fresh air?

Can I sit and listen to your anguish, let the streams from corners of your eyes erode the facade, the piled grit to crack in towards the wells of laughter.

What lays beneath a foot kept going in a world of broken glass?

Where is the playful beyond the pain?