Animated Shadows

We all get lost in our own findings. My heart is a handshake of a stranger asking for directions in a raining street. Or two lovers engrossed in a morning kiss wishing for forever.

What is there for me when the meek is done inheriting the earth? Maybe dust on a silver platter. On Lazarus’ feet lies gold dust. My toes dig the earth, like worms I wallow in my own delusions of grandeur. Loose feelings begging for change. I leave time second-guessing my next move.

Tic toc. Tic toc. Boom pap! Boom pap!

Dreams leave a note under my pillow. We must all love something. And if there was no poetry, my love for you would take its place. Solitude is my alma mater. Silence is my chaos on mute. Time mates with space and the result is me in stagnant waters counting shadows of my imagination. Wings are the tails of hope. And songs are feathers that bleed blue.

While some dangle from a rope, some smile at the setting of the moon. We are winners by default but customized feet on concrete have cast us down from spaceships and mermaids to black roses that sing calories — at the graveyard of our yesterdays.

I am a child of philosophy. I am, therefore, I am. You can’t quantify me. I am a continuum in a loop of my undoing. I unzip my lips and fly. I step outside my skin everytime I write
I type prototype. Melanin on paper. I engrave my Black essence on the sixth sense. Three clocks. Me of the waves. Me of the sea. Mp3s on MPC. I chop wood on sound matter. I inhale freedom and breathe saxophones. Like steel drums on jazz and vinyl. Candle flames and the groove. Blue fluorescents and lounge imaginings.

I touch souls but I leave no fingerprints on the earth’s surface. Only heartbeats collecting morning dews to water the soul. Lazarus turning crumbles into gold. What’s death if not the beginning of beauty? Razor blade meditation I hum bleeding chords. Music of the grave. How deep is your imagination? How lonely is your love? How vain it is to breathe with corrosive lungs and nostrils that smell fear in the intentions of men? What dies inside when a woman cries?

Waters on rocks we don’t strain to become, for the mind is a magnet of alchemy and the tongue is the sacred mirror; for we are what we speak. We are what we seek. MCs we are what we spit. So let your saliva be the elixir that can heal the universe from her doubts and misconception.

Let men dust off the weary feet of women with the wet napkins of their tongues.

Let the children not shoulder the burden of their father’s shattered dreams, for every man is born with wet wings and must seek his own sun to dry up, unzip his soul, naked and fly.

Without landing.

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