Sestina as the people

Guerrilla, Gorilla, that’s what they tell their mothers.
Everyone knows but no one says a thing.
Feet pressed together in a Persian pattern
fill the void. 
Shoes, Shoes, nothing but Shoes. 
Drown them with the polish, reflect the light.  

Ten toes, safe from blue light.
Bright lights and sparkling fruit mask the mothers.
Tiny shoes, black shoes, shiny shoes.
The pimps, the hustlers, the killers, they know that thing. 
The men from the mountains widen the void.  
Poison isn’t poison if it doesn’t fit the pattern. 

Grown girls follow the pattern.
They step out of  line, and get the light.
Autonomy makes them null and void. 
Stop! Go Back! Crying from mothers.
Barefoot girls, no cares about a thing.
The girls, the women, they only have flat shoes.

It’s more than just the shoes.
Tigers, planes, and Teamsters, its all a pattern.
It all points to one big thing,
they can’t escape the light.
It happens as soon as they escape their mothers,
and when we realize space is just a refillable void.

Mouths open to fill that void.
Hands move to make more shoes.
Babies’ cries find their new mothers. 
It’s fresh now, a fresh pattern. 
Kids love the colors, they love the light.
So is it then that one big thing? 

Black thing, blue thing, white thing.
Turpentine and old rags smear the color into the void.
Wires, with metal and plastic supply the light.
Machines and needles construct the shoes.
Don’t you see the pattern?
It’s what they can’t tell their mothers. 

Blind mothers step over one thing.
Footprints build the pattern around the void.
Great black shoes block the light.