Let the sky fall on my head and be heavier than this thought.
I am talking about a feeling in search of how a nation cries
like it is in search of dead leaves.
Mold grow on our skin as fungi from our pain,
I wonder | I reel | hold me!
My country is me in my dream: facing a door in darkness,
too scared to go through to success.
this poem a ritual prayer to the heart of God
with voice cracked from speaking in tongues. Husky.
Complex. Call salvation to sing us a lullaby of peace
because there is a way songs eat pain into the nothingness of thin air
to become memories of time passed, like pictures on walls basking in dust.
Large. Small. Medium. Kaleidoscope of a hope collection
Buried deep in the verses of expectation that bullets would
cease to laugh at our backs, as we bow, waiting.
In the wake of salvation.
