These people aren’t my family
and these steps don’t take me home,
to the top of the hill where I reign down
on my kingdom where I once roamed.
They were ghosts at best,
with routine whittling at their bones.
I have no hour in which to be,
so I settle into my dreams, alone.
There once was a cottage in the woods
where the sycamores stood their ground.
Where Wyeth and Washington bowed in reverence,
reminding me I once was lost, then found.
These people aren’t your family
and these steps don’t take you home
to the top of the hill where you reigned down
on your kingdom where you once roamed.
I had a dream beneath the fire
and amongst the dirt and stone,
where I climbed a mountain of silver
where sheer fabrics draped my throne.
There were stars that danced around their eyes,
that shimmered from my crown.
I opened The Bible and there she stood, Queen Esther,
ruling from the pages that once were bound
to lies of force and demands ‘this must be read’,
only to be given a gift they denied upon my head;
Prophecy in its purest form
and discovery on my own,
laid out before me like the marbled halls
that led this woman home.
They were ghosts at best,
with routine whittling at their bones.
She stands to fight for life and freedom,
even if she does it all alone.
These people aren’t our family
and these steps don’t take us home
to the top of the hill where we reigned down
on our kingdom where we once roamed.
