A Wail Came Cried To Me

loosely beating
down my throat to come
a call of words from tunnels of strangled thoughts
spiraled inside a body's isolated
once a wail came cried to me to swallow
found no empty place to die in hollow secret keeping
in my belly acoustics hit the walls to vomit screeches
tangible to defensive eyes lying, open wider still
and weeping
onto the trial of truth
prosecutors sleeping in notions of victory
only the spirit to judge and sentence longer than life
a chance to redeem through ancestry aging
younger from those born to die upon us
impetuous experience existing
within me from what I dare
allude to light and simply bare
that black and white may wage no separation
only a line each may cross and wear

A Book On A Windowsill

Open the curtains so I may enter
out the eyes of tears to the drops of new
water drowning, soaking, bleeding the black words
my Mother's mouth printed
upon the stale book of my memory,
a sick body to renew
submerging each page safe within soft muddy ground
only the rainy day brings weight to grieve
decomposing lessons into letters
beginning my writing as the rain becomes ink
my expression of truth now climbing to the surface
meeting some beam of friendship
reading my stories in empathy's sunlight
she speaks back to me my own transformation
smiling surely from a pane I perched to soar