The Communication Lines Have Gone Down.

The communication lines have gone down.
They hang limp – cut and abandoned,
overgrown with the roots of ancestors
tangled in my hair. They had wrenched
the cables apart, snapped by the pressure
of hankering traditions and foolish dreams.
The ghosts of conversations collect
in little puddles, on the ground
between intention and reality.
Weeds of frustration grow,
as do coarse flowers of understanding
that lean towards each other
across the irrevocable distance.


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