While
floating dimensions—this life, to see for deathness; the value changed,
to
filter through darkness, and touch for hearts. Something died, gasping for
breath,
a bit alive; where something flourished, a bit for dead, a lux of breathing.
We
came to conquer, soaring through lands, to tame the savage; and that to
live,
the vexation of life, fully condemned; in which for us, a fleet of mulattoes,
confused
and writhing. It’s gentle this dearth, to knit a nation, where ours is
corrupted;
and why for hate, to strap confliction, to paint the brighter skin. I’ve
come
to mourn, to never this journey, where love is eczema. The cycle’s
vicious,
for most content, to see us perish; and breaking off, a myth of hell, ten
tiers
a prison; for life is shackles, to see your face, a village discontent; and
mother
died, to vent the vacuum, to riddle freedom; and now for callous, to vex
a
neighbor, to speak against it; in which is tears, to know not the source, a
rootless
man. I die this panic, to have never lived, feuding through heritage;
and
thus to differ, to flit and flee, skipping through rainbows; for times are
crooked,
a verse to center—from Ecclesiastes; and venom is death, to clench a
friend,
and die the unaccepted. I speak to cherish, to point out death, where
many
have fallin’; whereat is potential, to voice the chaos, to finally break clear;
else for turmoil, to
hate for design, and controlled unknowingly.
