I come to you from a secret cell
home to the mother of muses
for comfort & for counsel
to find a new pulse, all ‘n all
we’ve never been that well;
there are no words of trust
between the shades of us
when there’s so much rust.
As power becomes seedy
the streets get weedy & the
deadhearted are given to boast
becoming our bastards & ghosts
re-igniting this quarrel:
Will this chance at renewal
bring jasmine’s scent
to those held in descent or
will it all be given
to those with jewels &
wreaths of laurel.
Through a prism of my own
I hear their years & years of tears
take march, as
choruses of voices sing out
so even I,
can find a home, but
at a certain point,
my heart will anoint, this
wandlike pen to speak,
when there’s so much rust,
between us.
