When I scratch my head
I'm digging through my dreads
standing at the crossroad
with the remaining of my journey left ahead
many words unspoken
so much left unsaid
to those who have gone down
into the compounded ground
where silence speaks with no sound
a place of certainty
I am bound to be
left emotionally ripped and torn
between the pages that speak to me
scripturally and prophetically
the water is not clear
it has not settled
for it is still dirty
I reach up for a branch off a tree
holding it like a pencil
to stencil into to the soil
a note to my younger self
a time capsule to be left and found
by someone else
standing in the place I once knelt
the rusted hinges coming off of the door
that fell to the floor to be closed no more