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.