perfect
man returns and the voicing in the voice
is the tiny flicker of hope i hold up against
a wall of ignorance fatigue and the need
to speak scream or shout
or fall down praying to a cannibal god
whose hand is a viper, a whip gently beating
me to the plains, in that clearing
again to be raped
but who am i
to even reflect or deflect the matter of this or that.
it is not a goodbye or even a hello or even this here message
words jumbled in head, roll out like the dictionary of my own pain
whispered in your ears
jah know that we are planning
to break free from her vice grip
it is i who have loved and lost
the losing is this said pain
of recovery,
but im like dirt.. old and not worth
much..
save to be buried
carried into the soil’s own
replenished .. harvest,
father sun and the holy ghost of dem west indians
who survived the whips and chains and rape,
i am here now my slanted eyes looking to a dark sky,
wanting her to come , but i know that she wont come
she wont speak,she wont even care to acknowledge me..
and as i grow..
i know i have walked this way before,
you and i, in eyes,
our own quiet riot of laughter and pain..
i salute you.. wondering the earth with your heart ..
and soul fixed to take control..
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