Years of Mirrors

I’m stuck on silence. Oh such sweet silence. Tell me what

happened, a sea of friends, devastated and dying. Once so

close, a vault of thieves, lost and broken. I cried a tear

for Sper, and heard a whisper: “I’m living Homie.” So

many deaths and complications: I mourn them all. So

meet us at the grave and only one person; for we carry

souls, afflicted with solar systems, mashing out the

cemetery. I remember high noon, cooking shrimp; and

early morning, paying rent. So young and gone, nutty for

mother’s Truth. Now here we are; and barely speak, nutty

about repercussions. But acres of pride, stab the soul; and

balls of yarn, color stencils; and our saga is steady

growing. Dear God—low and sad—another tear. I cried

for Blacks, and Whites included. But now I smile, filled

with Christ, staring into a mirror.