What is the fibre of your being,
where is the stuff that fashions you,
for some of us,
for the ones who have not stepped a foot outside the home they live in,
but have journeyed inside themselves until their soles are raw,
until our souls are raw,
we’ve learned the art of cutting away veils,
of peeling back layers,
until we find the core of our make up,
them be skills of soul blacksmiths,
of path travellers,
of dust faced journeymen,
who know how to wield their words with care,
or release them like hungry hounds,

I’m love, with war drums.


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