Pressed Lips

Who am I really?
I am the son of a poor farmer
and the son of a working mother
a storybook written in the ashes
of many forest fires and burnt journals
letting ink loose into the world

I am a brother to a soldier fighting
for his very survival in an urban jungle
and to two shining stars; the artist
and the mad scientist and her experiments
that circle the gas giants at the edge
of rocky cliffs and colorful tropical reefs

Memories made on matteresses
and hot meals sitting on a table
waiting for a king to take his seat
and dig into such a fine feast
only to sail away into the distance
with his sails at half mast

Who am I really?
I am the simple silence you hold
between pressed lips and in pockets
where you might find crumpled bills
and the sound of loose change
that can be used to buy paper kites