What's My Tribe?

We Blind Mice


I am labelled by a tongue
everywhere I find myself.
But scoured of skin I am a soul,
drawn blinkered through a maze of blinding light,
to leap the pool that held Narcissus rapt.


We journey toward our heart all down the years
and battle with inherited disgrace.
To be - is ball and chain;
one part only of a symphony,
as other songs are snowflakes on our lips.

Difference is beauty in a life,
but we have wrapped it in a flag and sold it cheap.
Gabbling as birds do in a coop,
strutting little boys and girls at play
becoming killers dressed in our own deaths.

Your tribe is mine,
and all my butchered meat is yours.
Say you love me and I'll say it back.
Fools are we who run amongst the hounds.
We're just the littered leaves,
and sun-bleached bones;
the patterns of the ermine - white and black.