My Dead

I find myself among my dead.
I look into their holy forms
and imagine how they would see me.

Once there I seek the truth of what I am
in comparisons between legacy and currency,
between what was expected of me and what I am.

I find myself in some ways continuous
and in others interrupted. In some ways
true to form, in others distorted, in yet others 

absent, in even more disrupted.
In fact I may say the truest discovery
is that I am in fact a disruption.

I find myself among my dead.
They ask why I am this and not that,
how did I get to be this and not that,

where I left this and where I found that.
I do not speak.  I turn a runway turn.
That is all I can offer: full self in rotation before them.  

I find myself while among my dead.
My people who came before are present with me
though I am only in part recognizable to them,

though I am able to answer few of their questions.
They ask if all is as they predicted. I say: pretty much
as predicted, except that my part in it is not yet set.

I find myself among my whispering dead
as they return to sleep.  They nod, say: come back to us
once you know. Once you’ve played it to the end.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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