Long after your aura lingers.
I long for you in dimly lit rooms —
The essence of your passion still
Tingling on the tips of my fingers.
The waves of your substance encompass me
And I am immersed in you deeply;
The depths of me I cannot hide.
See me now in my naked vulnerability 
Without my pride, without doubt,
Without my tall defensive walls.
I strip myself of insecure ruminations
And with love I give you my all.
At the end of the world when everything around us falls, 
It is then we will rekindle our eternal vows —
Inseparable in the heavens, your hair 
Falling off the edges of the clouds;
Our story written by the hands of
Angels with golden pens, read aloud again and again.
Your comeliness rivaling that of even the stars;
With tears of joy I behold you…
My dear woman, I love you.
Adorned in white you are my morning light
That vanquishes the torment of the night.
I hold on to you in the storm;
I call for you loudly and you reach for me.
The fire that is in you is also the fire that is in me.
You are a wonderful mystery and beautiful naturally.
Almond eyes across the room stare …
Your hair like a thousand waterfalls in spring after a long winter thaw, 
Curling on the way down with thunderous applause.
Forever I am yours. Eternally I am yours.

Two Levels From Hell

Two levels from hell at 3 A.M.
She drinks again and thinks of him
Forever scarred once gentle heart
Now cold as ice and triple dark

The darkness stalks
The darkness stalks
With red eyes shot 
The darkness stalks

Her spirit wails
Her spirit wails
With deep inhale 
Her spirit wails

A love was lost 
A love was lost
And now her soul is torn apart

And in those tears she sheds her tears
From pretty eyes that age with years
Behind her eyes is where pain lies
And Hestia’s flame of many fires

Immersed in pain
That terrible pain
She’s tasted hell
Again and again

From birth to death in torturous depths
The soul it weeps in labored breaths
She walks across in measured steps
The treacherous bridge above the abyss

Two levels from hell
Two levels from hell
Within four walls is where she dwells

Though you cry,
you are beautiful.

Though you are weary,
you are resilient in your journey.

Though you suffer,
you will survive the winter.

Though lovers have fallen away,
you have recaptured the essence of your aura.

Though you are immersed in anguish,
the fire in your eyes is not extinguished.

Though you are ridiculed,
you will emerge triumphant.

Though you endure torment,
the strength of your spirit will not relent.

Though you have wept for many seasons,
now is the time of your healing.

Though you have suffered injustice,
a reckoning is on the horizon.

Though you feel unloved,
the universe cradles you in her womb
And Polaris shines upon you.

Though you contemplate eternal sleep,
your heart still beats, and you are not weak.

Though you are sorrowful,
your spirit will not wither.

Though they try to confine you,
you are blue fire, subjugating detractors
and illuminating the darkest depths of deep waters.

The Songbird and I (amended repost)


Searching for light I plead my cause and plight. The vast darkness of a deep well, my road of suffering is that of hell. I have seen with my eyes and heard with my ears the cries and screams of the afflicted, sorrowful moaning and the deep bellowing of the tormented. The voices of their pain fill the void and ascend to the heavens. The stench of it burns the nostrils. Fear stalks me and apprehension holds me against my will. I must cross over the abyss, or forever I will remain in darkness. Vile beasts wander aimlessly in search of sustenance; a songbird refreshes my resolve. My lamp is dim and my oil is low. I must move faster; I must make haste. In my pocket she sings—again my songbird sings. We are both weary but hopeful. She will cross over to the other side with me. We must make it over or perish here in the land of desolation. I thought I saw the treacherous bridge, but my eyes deceive me. Still we slog on, for we are replete with determination and hardened in our travail. I see the bridge now; that treacherous bridge over the abyss. We make ready for our journey over. Yes, we will cross over, Songbird and I. She peeks out briefly, her beak resting on the edge of my worn and rugged pocket. A new song is sung.

Ghosts of Strange Fruit and Towering Trees

Blood of the fallen runs on the alter of vengeance
Eyes of fire replay their last moments
The tears that fall are the final expulsion of agony
We cry no more but see the kindling of our glory
Embers light up the dark night
The wailing of grieving mothers is the essence of our plight
Intuition is our vision even if we lose our sight
Last agonizing breaths of our ancestors absolutely indicts
The generations of slave masters 
The hell of our lives trivialized through lying tongues and murderous eyes
The wicked intent of their hearts pulling on the woven fabric
Of the very flag of which they hide behind
We are tired but resolved
Hear it in our sighs
For the children have seen strange fruit
With broken necks and bulging eyes as their father’s drove by
Instilling fear year after year each season 
Beginning with the commencement of tears
If there is indeed an almighty God
The anxiety of our children will not go unpunished
We have survived many violent summers
And the fire of resilience has warmed us in the coldest winters
In their last moments the beloved stood under the shade of  canopies 
Hanged on the branches of towering trees 
The same place they were whipped unmercifully 
The trees left as witnesses with splatter from the blood of tortured bodies 
In their deep roots they retained the tormented screams
And did not bear sweet fruit again 
They slowly withered with the discoloration of their leaves
Mothers fell to their knees and cried out for their sons
While their daughters tried to comfort them
For everything under the heavens there is a beginning and an end
The ghosts of the oppressed and the afflicted
Roam freely in the vast fields of plantations 
And among the aged towering trees where pain was inflicted
The soil where they toiled infused with sweat and blood
If you listen closely their songs can be heard
Hands with many scars and eyes blurred 
In unbearable heat they yet toiled under the overseer’s gun
Seeing the blood run from the hands of even the little ones
Their mothers sneaking to tend to their wounds with love
The towering trees witness their sorrow from above

The Progeny of Anxiety


The percussion of their heartbeat
Is the rhythm of struggle of many generations.
The agony of their fathers last words
Spoken intensely for so many summers. 
They have seen the hope of dreams
Turned into the nightmares of monstrous scenes unseen;
Their fathers lie there—eyes opened, as pooled blood 
Starts to run; the last remnant left behind
Of the affliction of their lives.
Mothers in unbearable anguish comfort their sons
and gently wipe the tears from their eyes;
They say, It will be alright, but in their hearts 
They fear their utterances lie;
Prayers are abandoned, and faces
No longer look toward the sky.
Stark reality is lifelessness taken away on a gurney,
While eyes stare, with not so subtle apathy;
Black children ask, What does that mean for me?
Tired mothers and fathers try to answer

But voices drag wearily;
Targeted we may be, but we find our strength daily.
We will survive; even with tears in our eyes, we will survive.
In anxiety, we will survive;
In depression, we will survive;
With a generational history of PTSD, we will survive;
With OCD, we will survive;
With afflictions of all kinds, we will survive;
And after the dark winter we will thrive.