This one is about personal healing. It’s sad to see people with their hearts being closed to everyone and everything.

The Cage

How’s the crafter to mold your heart
If every time he tries you bolt shock him?
How is he to glue the pieces that were torn apart
If you like yourself now better being broken?

And everything that figures a shadow looks like a stain
And anything that gravitates toward you feels invasive
And the innocence that you once had in you, now’s a hostage
You’ve forgotten all about the love and you rely only on the rage.

How are the healing powers to restore you…
If you won’t even allow time forget about the scars on your skin?
How are you to move forward to a place you feel safe…
When you keep yourself trapped in this eternal cage, forever hurting?

And every aiding hand looks like…

1889 – on the central plains of Indian Territory, soon to be Oklahoma Territory, soon to be the state of Oklahoma. They are standing by a grave in the dead of winter. It is cold, and the wind is up, making it colder. The ground was so hard, picks had to be used to break it up, but, it was done. A funeral has just ended.

——————–

…and, he was the one who wanted to come west. He was the one who, in his excitement, made everyone else excited enough to sell everything and come to Indian Territory for the land run. Was it just last April that we did that, ran like crazy people to drive a stake in the ground for 160 acres? Lord, I’d never do that again! It’s a wonder we weren’t all killed, for sure!

Father was a such a notional man, but, we did it! We have our land…thanks to…

Love slips in,

dressed modestly,

silently takes its place,

senses hush.

I listen.