No, well not patiently serenade and await the coming of all that is ours for the taking. No come-hither cooing from our lips escapes; no soft, whispered wherefore-art-thou poetry. Well accent our lives! This trials so desperate and dire. So hackneyed, held hardly together by our hoarse screams heard only between whats sewn in song: the stitching seems so severely immaterial, im sure. But this is ours. Produced for our pleasure, not yours. Not yours!
On these words of our evolving truth weve patterned our lives, building bolt by bolt, laying floorboards and walls with our sweat and our blood and our ten blistered hands to uproot our old plans, to throw off and leave. To leave, yes, we will leave this place for a life not contrived by those that came before us.
Our hour nears, just watch the way the hands circumscribe the face. Then we will fly, we will flee this thirteenth colony when thirteen bells ring.
This is our plea: to the blue-suspended cirrus stirred by arrowheads of sparrows flight, make room for me. To the tangles of the forests viral vacuoles knotted lives, make room for me. To the horizon forever afoot, the waning western light, make room for me. To the oceans open bellies, black and swelling, starving, rise! Make room for me!