Tribal Blues

Young the tribe with all the caring of the wild, consume the weak, dance to the beat of bone sticks on drums of skin asked, “will you let a blue boy in”? He enters wheeled in, in his cage built of love by caring hands and mourning eyes seeing beyond panting breath through purple lips, they squint at death which this tribe knows in tiny form they slay in games, "sans" empathy and weak defame. Envious of wasted care on one who is not of the tribe, the hunted not the hunter he, no warrior to play beside. He stares ahead to some far place where the sun’s warm on straight smooth limbs where he is prince of strength, and loved so there’s no fear of tribal spears. Soon he must go, short winter day, leaving a star to light a way away from dance with bone on skin to let the beat of conscience in. .