In the four corners of her heart
are transient words fair and still
remembering every nook of pain,
the impure ones that wore a regalia of life
purple one without blood but stains.
These are her tales
embodied in the darkness of nothing.
It’s all fine, it will be right
and so she writes things which are kind.
For her type and the unspoken zippers that draw down
releasing stories horror to memory.
I am the recollections fetched to write to you.
To that prince whose dreams are rich
walking the blocks feeling like a king,
knows the in-outs of the shattered house.
The slumbers of gods
prayed to his prey so he wakes
from this dream
and resumes been nothing.
Your accolades are a shiny metal
left hanging in the pool that is stench.
I am the words echoing from your mind
telling your conscience
you have seen the light of day.
There are curses and it sauce
the pain that comes with the rain,
I am the weak little ink that writes the story
for the children of old
The African ones.