We prided
ignorance, after being laughed at, that mischief of souls; where closure
languished, this chasm of thoughts—the genesis of color lines; but more to
love, this daughter of souls, as perishing to golden eyes; while gifted to
live, this mental ambition, as rounded in carriages; that arrogant smile, that
humble gait, this mixture of intensities. We laugh to see it, one so cruel for
love, as to protect a common interest; but back to races, this need to resist,
while liquor is being guzzled—and our peers are feeling hate; that thing of
tears, molded within a household, where one is often a bit flippant—especially,
about color, that seeping grin, as paranoid about integration; but more to perfection,
this northern gate, where mulattoes appear different; that thing of thoughts,
to know both worlds, where a fellow chap condemns complexion. It mustn’t be
real, as delivered in classes, this thing about black psychology; to listen to
Akbar, favored by a professor, where it’s advised that one lives in abasements;
but more to love, this woman of souls, as gracious as a southern star—to find
for culture, this scented style, grooving to Stylistics. It was easy to
see—this force of souls, gilted in a silken halo; where culture stood,
appraised by men—this want to swim in deeper trenches; that ocean of waves, centered
in mystic rooms, as gloomy as that last epiphany; but more to nuances, this
thing of dissents, where a light bulb is wedged in an apple; to find for
passion, this thing of hate, while attracted to a fraction of a person; as
opposites wail, the tales of dreads, where treasures trickle into moments; as
so is love—this friend of souls, as casual as a passing gaze; to pump our
hearts, that feeling of sweat, toppling over into a vast thump; where it
couldn’t be real, while it had to be real, as opposed to mere infatuation; but
more to truths, this feeling unprovoked, merely captured in thoughts; those
waves of souls, as secret locomotives, textured by a ghostly presence; to see
it for powers, those eyes of souls, digging while reaching for gems; but more
to race, this light of woes, vying for segregation; while praising variety,
this drift of sights, at war with a private urge.
