When my time comes I won’t know u… U’ll be forgotten… The only thought or feeling in me when when I go back will be… Me, me, myself, myself! No one will be able to speak for me. No lawyers. No intercessors. No helpers. No defenders to plead my case. I won’t be able to point. I won’t be able to throw blame or make excuses. All I’ll have is my heart and all it embraces… And everything I’ve ever done here good or bad. I’ve been told…everyone will die upon that which they lived… And everyone will be raised upon that which they died… Everyone goes back alone… Same way we came here. Alone. Ur language won’t matter. Ur race or nationality will mean nothing. Ur lineage. Ur heritage. What uve accomplished or acquired here of property or prestige among men. None of these things give u value or rank before him. They were his anyway. Given to u by his own hand. Only ur regard for him and the actions which sprang from it will be a proof for u… Nothing more… Are u ready to go back?… I’m not… But no man knows thier hour… No man amongst us… When he calls for u… U go back.

Published by Pack Redfeather

I am a walking contradiction of traditions some say. An African American and Native American Muslim poet with a personal life history as violently turbulent as a Storm. A visionary from the bottom of life’s social barrel striving to share the hope found in the light of faith through sometimes dark but real poetry. I’m a former member of the Bloods street gang, former serial bank robber, and both federal/state prison convict. I live on my mother’s tribal reservation of the Leech Lake band of Ojibwe in Minnesota.

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