Her Century

paper is creased, before it soars across the sky;
quiet child sits alone, too scared to stop the boy from
shaking her again; and in her silly chagrin
she wants to know why he's still sitting there, smiling.

a lunatic ponders the notion of
this frame around their skin
if only they could break away
from these foundations
and soar across the horizon
like they were meant to be, free.

Rain pours down from violet clouds
Make our fathers proud, they shout
while the tired daisies wilt beyond the gate
of offered nouns of apotheosis
smoke fills the sky, she sees
locusts pouring down from up high.

Perhaps we lack the volition to say no
with loaded guns, and dying hope
cremated in uniform, taking aim
in a world already painted white,
treason, our invitation
sedition rendering us one motif
that God was on the other side.

They still remind her it's not insane
to hear voices crying in the rain
as souls who spoke beyond the pale
it will time to collect each name
but I was wicked, guilty, shamed
an etch upon the darkest of slabs of time.

once whispers, now rejoice in choir
for behind the dust, a girl would dream
of her strength becoming more and more
in a century that became
her century, her revolution.