Oh, My.

A Native
man sings the
language
of the Earth,
while
others
scorn
his
choice of words,
improvising his sentence structure,
and
deflowering
the
chase of his
verbs.
We’re in
a
pause of
sorts,
shifting
in between the noise
of
what we’re
feeling,
vice the chaos
that
begins
every
musical
note.

This pause.

See,
we pause
because we
don’t have access
to
our own voice,
the
lip service of sainthood,
and
the days
blend
together like
a whisper
behind
another
whisper.

Oh, my.
Oh, my.

How did we get here
if we’ve
never asked
for
directions?

How did we get
so lost
if we created
of all of the angles?

Oh, my.
Oh, my.

See,
we pause
because we
don’t have access
to
our own voice,
and
we let the
days
get away from us
like
they’re owed
to us.

Oh, my.
Oh, my.

M.C. Davis

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