contrite yet compelled,
confused yet confident,
alone and in pain.
In this the process of healing
we are the puzzles whose pieces have vanished,
we are the Jesters whose antics mask pain.
We are the ghostly stampede of dying Buffalos across the arid plains
mammoth and unruly,
furied and bold,
majestic and free.
We do not die easily
but bellow out in rage the names of slain ancestors
who speak from darkened dreams of more glory-full days.
are not dead
but merely unseen.
On shadowy mountains, along desolate rivers,
amongst fleeting consciousness and the kindness of strangers
these ghost-like spirits run free.