Leading down the path
As the bleeding sun,
rises,
the ground that I called mother,
curls into a sinusoidal oblong,
that leaves in me,
a sense that,
things are ending,
and yet I walk upon this,
ground I once called mother,
asking the sky,
a father,
whether I may,
glide the surface,
of the faces of a tyrant,
who was once my brother,
and,
forgetting that bond of siblinghood,
that I once thought,
was bound underneath the epidermis,
by the vessels I now call sister,
and yet I follow the light that calls to me now,
leading down the path.