Words could not save her this time.
There were no paper boats and pen oars to sail her to the safe corners of her mind.
She had inhaled him too deeply,
Until his breath had formed lips in every pore on her skin.
She did not know how to end him
Or where to begin.
Words could not save her.
She had inhaled him too deeply
Until his breath had formed lips in every pore on her skin,
Whispers, hypnotic and polyphonic,
Effects which are soporific.
She closes her eyes and tries to quiet herself
But there are too many voices,
She falls asleep in defense
And woke up seeking a river.
There were no paper boats and pen oars sailing her to the safe corners of her mind.
This journey was different.
She felt the pull of her bloodline, urging, go to the water source.
She let the blue-green currents sweep her away … they said, be reborn.
As her head emerged from the water,
she woke up from the dream,
Remembering the scene, with women cheering Omowale. Omowale. Omowale.
Her true true self is like a flash of prismatic light –
On the edge of glassed minds, illuminating.
Yet she remains invisible, even when bared to naked eyes.
Tired, she folds her faded reality neatly into a corner,
watches the surreal become solid way of life.
Time and time again
They prove that people like her are in vain.
She resigns, surrenders her essence to the dust.
A joyless peace consumes her,
She understands, now, why she was demeaned.
True beauty is external for external beauty is rewarded and seen,
A vanity that is never in vain.
When the moon hangs overhead like a doting mother,
My thoughts become a chiaroscuro,
Indistinct, billowing shades caught by the ceiling…
The out-pour buoying,
The ‘me’ ebbing away from the walls that send back a faint echo of my innermost self
Stirring awake in the dark…
When the waylaying yellow fingers of dawn reach in through the window,
The chrysalis breaks prematurely –
and the stratus dissipates,
before I can make meaning out of it by the bureau.