Window to the Soul

The dust of my soul are the remnants of pain and the stories untold. In the wind I am carried effortlessly like flower petals in spring. I ride on ten thousand golden chariots and make my ascension; the moon and the planets are my neighbors. In my song there is a sweet fragrance akin to vast fields of white gardenias. My piercing cries are like that of an eagle; I soar above the clouds and view my life’s movie from the heavens. That boy, oh that young boy with a caramel glow, eyes wide and bright who befriended the crow. He suffered, yes he suffered indeed, and the world didn’t know. At the grave site when they lowered her, tears fell from my young face, but when I got older I found there was no more embrace. Oh wondrous mother, look upon your son and see the agony of his days, for the men mercilessly kill and the women’s hearts are cold and no longer filled with grace. I have had many lovers in whom I sought shelter, but my own naivety betrayed me, yet the desires of my heart still slay me.

My redemption has been written in the dark ink of the dried blood of my ancestors turmoil. In tears they were shackled and forcefully made to lie in their own filth; packed side by side in agony they died and were brought over on ships. Enslaved and oppressed they were  mercilessly beaten with whips. The blood that ran down their bodies now runs through me; a child of pain, I arrived through the sweat and screams of my mother’s agony; her long hair and hazel eyes a wonder of beauty. I stare into the mirror, and still the eyes of that child that hoped for more stare back at me. He doesn’t say anything, but he knows what I’m thinking. His expressions of sadness and lament move me to want to comfort him, but I cannot, for I am him. Every now and then he sees me and smiles. He dwells among the stars and is a god in my mind. 

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