Song of an origin

Mine is a song of an origin,
that is not bound by a city, a national anthem
nor composed by attention demanded by the others
for time, for a smile, for things done without purpose

this is my song , emanating from a depth
further than routine, larger than an idea
that floats elsewhere, doling on a hope for
love, among other things-

this is not a loveless song, it is an origin story
once far by the formations of jazz notes
in a sickly faint weather, foul by wind
a birth of an origin

the tones will start by a humming
for an idle childhood that was cut
to chase by the gun shaped wooden pallet
to guard, to hold at bay; enemies

the whistle of a bird carries itself forward
to years of struggles, for acceptance,
to belong in a place that is removed from time
but still tied to the human initiative to grow

wise, not just older
bolder, jumping ropes with hell burning under
riding a roller-coaster in mid-winter
or just plain prayer linked with tears

this is the chorus, that repeats itself
every few seconds, a haul across continents
dancing with a stranger on your chest,
then forming an epitaph for what's jotted in a black notepad;

roots, veins, cell-formation
desires, ideas we craft for ourselves to say
we came from here, point (A)
going there, if ever arriving- point (B)
this is a story of origin, not of movement
one that carries a sediment of all those who move.