The Individual

Don't touch the individual

Don't speak to the Individual

Don't trust the individual

Why?

Because she can not be folded like origami

Made to be molded and outlined with blue veins

And an empty cranium rusted like a bicycle's bar handle

Stomaching the rotten lines she was fed

She is an invisible intention

An intention only brought here by an Invisible Man

She is the belief of winged phantoms

Her cloak slathered with revolutionary tar

That snags and rips the seams of her self esteem

She is not the faded picture but the cracks in the surface

She is the dusty film perched in the bottom corner of your grandfather's addict attic

That blew from the northerly wind

That swept Pocahontas to breathe encrusted armor

The weight of her tribe in her sheath

The memories searing the blade

Her death among many on the lips of the Motherland

Blown to the hurray of an English colony

She was the trigger that released silence among lead people

Like the toothpick they picked in between their teeth

Laced with greed

Sewn with loathing

Trimmed with attitude

And patched with silence

Because silence is the individual

And the individual endures the silence