Those people who say things,
Cannot be done,
Have never imagined,
How it could be done.

Those people lack,
The lift of imagination,
The starry eyes,
And the dreams,
To conceive thought,
Give it birth,
Nurture and raise it,
to full blossom.

But these people are not your people,
You are not of their tribe,
Their clan.
You feel it,
Even if you don’t outright realize it,
That everything,
It all,
Is mutable.

You feel it,
Even if you don’t consciously know it,
That dreams dreamt,
In this world,
Can be real.
The world reshaped,
Bent to intersect,
With what came before it.

Gather round the fire,
Meet at the sweat lodge,
Dance with painted skin,
Through the smoke and mist,
Into the Seeing,
Now Knowing,
You are of the Ones,
Who can.

By malakhai jones
Copyright  (c) 2016