There’s something magical about 4 am. The birds twittering in the dark like little taps of a blind man’s cane keep me on the path to my destination.
By Simone Brown5 years ago in Poets
The disorder I see is preposterous. Clean streets, dirtied and full of noise like those inner-city classrooms they told me to loathe
This was no accident. Blood was spilled, lives were broken To build a more perfect union. Your ivory towers are the support
You can't hear me. I know this. I am the wind, you are the panes Of a large glass house on a hill. I mourn. You are the axis of the earth.
Mummified and liquidated, We allowed our rotting juices To seep into our most sacred gardens. The voices of the undead haven't stopped
