The spine is a trunk.
The nerves are vines, draping insides of beings like sound-walls.
Meditation is the freeway to higher learning, of self.
This truth is no pyramid scheme;
Judge taste – not people.
Leaves fall resembling coin filled wishes, to the bottom of a pond.
Whose depths are more than seen on surface.
We are all flowers.
The branches of energy are
fruitful, delicate, and sometimes blemished.
Mother’s of the sun birth daughters of stars, with crescent eyes.
Upheld by Orion.
Their voices mocking Little Walter;
Singing blues to the blacks, browns, and all bands of color.
Harmoniously their cries spawn tides, expunging identities.
There is peace lodged in the throats of mutes.
Yoga is poetry in the form sign language.
Exchanging idioms between flexibility and endurance.
This Being –
Firm like a mountain, pose
Still like a tree, yet
a Warrior soul.
The Day I Die,
Every sidewalk will talk,
and all the trees will dance,
the wind will stop to listen.
When I die,
My mother will re-embrace me,
because I am back home with her.
She will flood the ocean with her tears of rejoice.
On the die I die,
the streets where every secret is toxic
will finally come clean,
and express its unconditional love for me.
The birds will sing me lullaby’s
to put my soul at ease.
As I rest peacefully in the warmth
of my mother bosom.
On the day I die,
is the day I will give back.
Apologize for certain mishaps, and slips,
but certainly the disrespect.
The clouds will part
to make way for my entrance,
will be illuminating grotesquely,
symbolizing my spirit.
The day before,
I could smell the birds of paradise,
with an aroma so strong,
they screamed loud enough for me to wake up,
The day I die,
I will be home.