A dying child will cough his smoke at me

a baby? a dying man?

I’m constantly torn between race and culture, religion and future

Let’s all sink and die, believe and rise.

For I lost my baby, yet I speak of an angry woman, a praying one

Another day another death

Tell me of a lord, maybe I would worship

Tell me of the sun, maybe I will lookup

For I am vulnerable to a love I never saw, never will meet

A baby perhaps a blue

Steady, perhaps a moon


We live in each other’s bellies

Leave a comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *