Memories of Truth

For John Emilbus™
A Warrior ~ A Dreamer ~ A Brother

His warpaint was fading,
reflection of a sad clown rather than a proud warrior.
The memory of his last battle,
faded near as badly.

No longer could he recall light held by the moon,
though sometimes he would glimpse it late at night,
out the window, a world away.

He slept beneath starched white sheets,
missed the feel of doeskin;
the sound of drums washed away
by the sound of monitors;
clean white sneakers on cold linoleum.

They kept his hair short,
and he longed for the braids of the past,
feathers of his brothers,
plains of the buffalo.

He dreamed of her more often than not,
wondering whether she had passed over
to the lands promised by the fathers.

Where she was, he did not know.

If he had his way, he'd be there now;
would have journeyed years ago,
finding the place where ancestors waited
to lead brave souls to the stars.

He'd have to wait now
for time to bring his peace;
an honorable death, no longer his to choose.
If he didn't eat, they stuck needles in his arms;
pumping tastless fluids into unwilling limbs
until he surrendered.

Was he ever a brave ~
Was he ever a warrior?

When she was his, he was a brave,
a warrior with vivid paints and silken braids;
native dreams that would carry them both
beyond the light of the moon
to the place where heaven touched the ground;
buffalo were plentiful
and doeskin was the only right choice.

He waited,
and remembered,
and wept.

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