• Dré

Return of the Matriarchy

My words lack lustre— Incongruous cornucopia thoughts, Trapped beneath delicate finger pads. Afraid to rise and fall, Shackled to Q-W-E, I-O-P.

They lift, I hit keys like lightning strikes, Loathing materialization, Which fails to break ground, That so desperately needs breaking.

One lightning strike, A whole forest alight. Ancient giants burn to the ground, Gracefully accepting defeat— Their remnants, fertile soil.

We must learn from the trees, Who of their own volition turn to ash, That old paradigms collapse, Novel systems take their place The phoenix there will rise.

My words lack lustre— I fear they won’t be heard. Drowned out by deeper voices, Pulverized by hands that Fit both of mine in one of theirs.

But she is no longer afraid

I trade high-heeled femininity; never tread on any toes. Fuck that. I stomp bare feet on the ground, Rattling the Earth to her core, Each step, perhaps, could make her feel less alone.

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