Poets, Mavericks & Prophets

That day, I tore myself apart

into ten intricate pieces —

and threw them into the four winds,

to carry across the seas and unknown places,

downstream and upstream,

deep below the surface

of volcanic rocks and greenery,

and land. And mind.

Every morning, I would say a prayer

to each and every one

of my inconspicuous spirits,

living their singular existence in

other people’s stories and verses,

and small talk. And gossip.

Undetected and poetic.

Somnambulic sermons,

in strange temples.

In foreign venacular.

Untranslatable and bare.

And, every night, I would

salute their forgotten ink

and tarred syntax,

believing they would return, to me,

one day, heavy with experience,

trembling with apprehension,

and knock at my door,

longing for shelter.

My lost selves,

catapulted into incarnation.

Orphans of circumstance.

Finding their way around

the merciful globe.

And home.

©Milana Vujkov, Galileo’s Orb, 2023