Laying low
Every corner holds a new memory,
A flash from past oppression.
It can't stay hidden,
faded far from impact,
Although Even the lost have returned.
Within a glimpse,
A relatively small proportion,
identification takes place and it becomes weary.
Oblivious to where I use to be,
all I could identify was a single necessity.
There's more to the story than what I led on to believe.
The roots that wrap my little fragile organs together,
They're wrong yet thinner than the oak that bares the coverage.
