exhale the quiet
Resurrect, and again...
By way of my heart it flows, slow and winding
into the hand that holds my pen,
that is to say I've died an artists death.
I'm in blackness, my surface is callus, my
understanding is mute their is nothing...
At night I walk in anger under various moons
and sometimes their would be stars, on better nights
my head would be saturated, my hair would be
soaked, and my locs would weigh heavy as if of
calling out my spirit finds its voice an echoing hallow
within as though it was being held within...
And I'd walk somewhere, it mattered not somewhere
even as my heart beat loud and hard, and slowly.
Some early mornings before the day chased away the night
I cared less, I had no concern for the bad lands or the
dark shadows of men caring less of my mortality.
it was a chance for a miserable fight, perhaps unto death...
and I can feel but not name the weighted cloak, the tethered
thing drapeing my shoulders, it holds a clamor of names and
from the tower of my mind i loudly curse it with my sanity,
or insanity, i know not which...
as my face shows nothing and my lips remained still
the rain poured down and streamed down the concrete street
concerning it self with none and nothing but me moving and
carrying small bits of anything in its path including my thoughts
soaking me as i listen to the symphonies of inner city streams
and the sounds of water free falling into the sewers.
I didn't want to move... with two feet off the curve and seated on the
pavement some nights I didn't want to move, my face in my hands...
i didn't want to move and could neither cry out nor name the heavy
cloak that drapes me, and the rain poured my portion...
The rain has ever cared for me, it loves me to heal and it loves me, to
so it flows to impart by way of my heart to the hand that holds my pen
that i may resurrect again, and again.
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