folly fabric black satin negro dead negro depleted.
he smiles, negro fabricated. he walks; (to where) negro is perplexed and plunged in footprints tandem to kin.
negro duplicated. he dies, negro dead. he dies, negro lives.
the trumpet lives on! the sax will suffice! when the negro(s) die- s, aye! he lives!
As she weeps,
Her eyes gaze upon her once fruitful garden.
There are no seeds,
Thus no leaves,
Arched to the Moon…
Asking why the astrological God could not spare her laden crop.
The Moon gives no response.
Rest assured the Moon is not her only God.
Arched to the Sun…
Asking why the astrological God
Could not spare her laden crop?
The Sun gives no response.
Rest assured the Sun is not her only God.
As searching turns to futility,
Her tears are the taste of potent desperation.
As her alternatives dwindle,
Primary alters to secondary plots.
She cries to the Clouds,
‘Earth my crop’
The Clouds respond
‘I was not your only God’
A field of laden crop.
Look your perpetrator in his eyes,
He feels he is the epitome of superlative greatness.
He looks upon you and reaches for his trusty brush,
He feels no shame,
No apprehension in his heart.
A brush he uses for too many people tandem to you.
Equipped, with malice in his eyes.
No surfacing of a mood so blue,
As you notice while this brush is plummeting towards your face
He paints you with a brush far from plain.
He lays his weapon upon your skin to remind you,
You are built upon what he paints.
Dear Mr Painter and your linear views,
Your paint is weak and your skills to understand the skin you paint are too linear to view.
My skin is better than anything your brush will ever form.
I am built upon what is already painted and that lays upon my skin,
Your brushes are weak and also inadequate.
So lay your tarnished brush from whence it came.
I do not depend and exemplify anything you create.
Far from a drunkard by nature,
Nor has my liver seen nights of excessive wine
Sliding down to the gut.
I sit not at the infamous table of sorrow
Drinking into a state of drunkard dependency.
However I dwell in a dim lit room…
A clear window to the north of me
Clarity of a crystals peak,
I stare at the Moon
Addicted to her taste,
Addicted to her love.
Just like the drunkard and his wine,
Perched on his shelf inside of his room.
Accustomed to his foolish prate.
Oh how they both intertwine.
The Moon’s tears saturate the decrepit sea, tarnished and tampered by the cataclysm of man kind, how it cries for the Moon’s tears of purity.
But the Moon’s tears channelled to the Sea will soon after amalgamate with the seas new skin.
Thus, once again making it pure.
Surging to mankind’s body through the larynx to the obscure bottomless pit;
Although it cannot seem and seldom saturate the hearts of man.
The Moon sunders…
The Moon’s heart tends to wonder foreign lands.
Too pure for the impurity of man.