let me tell you about story

i’m still learning how to unwrap the gift of story
i sometimes think my palms weren’t meant to handle something so profound
my voice not melodic enough for her music
my existence too insignificant to be added to her text

i mean, she’s story
a timeless personification the world over
a tongue sharpened allegory
and make no mistake
story never existed for her own glory
she tells triumphant tales of victory
teaches lessons in a sojourner’s defeat
calls upon potent vessels of revolution
cause see
she, unlike me
has danced in perfect stride with sister spontaneity
to the unmingled music of the moon
her silhouette formed by the glow of brother fortune’s foretold
the ferment of story verbalized in bold
in an hour shes called upon one hundredfold
watch historic layers give way as her legacy unfolds

she has even migrated west
to watch the absence of both rest and even upward mobility
her fertility inhabits the heart songs of the destitute
she was raised in the home of barren and broken tributes
ripened to caress the calloused earth that pains
she has chronicled ancient text spent lifetimes to obtain
and to a hero’s disdain
story outlasts even the steadfast to remain
etched into my palms before I could grasp the symbol of a fist
story has felt the pulse of the fallen brown warrior and matriarch
and tasted the tears that only real hope can spark
but with the rhythmic beats of native drumming
story continues

coloring the history of the rising of the sun
huddling together inside the encampment walls
wielding a pen with ferocity and fidelity
blessing the mic under lackluster lighting
cutting through the unbearable stench of rolling hills of waste
reminiscing under the soft glow of street corner lamplight

like i told you
i am still learning how to unwrap the gift of story
for i am forever indebted to story
i am her child, her muse, her vehicle
my entrails were picked apart and branded by story
and as i grew, my passions were shaped by story
i am carried to neverland by her moonlit soliloquy
yet i am violently awakened by her screams for equity
but she continues to hold my hand as we walk backwards from the past
i grip tightly with the wind at my back,
we two, are protectors of the sun
she, like the wind, carries the solemn whispers to the corners of the earth

story is our impetus
a reactionary measure
meant to share ourselves with others
so live and let story, give and get story
cause story waits for no man
and i have never met a man that wasn’t willing to listen to story
learn to unwrap this gift the world calls story
so you and i can be blessed