I am King Moses

Allow me to ingratiate myself with you critics,

To add condiment to your cloying rhetoric.

Predictably, you'll inanely assert

That this poet merely mimics—

But I am an aesthete,

Raised on rap lyrics.

Metamorphosis complete, now let me swirl:

A wordsmith with truculent lines that hurl.

Twenty-eight years in a bottle—this wine is ready.

Gestation over. The cervix? Steady.

As fate would have it, the world is my womb,

Amniotic. Love cushions this time-bomb.

Propaganda is the placenta—

Set to sift the truth.

Umbilical—the projects allow truths to enter,

Like alcohol and nicotine—Rife.

Injustice is centre.

Through the seven windows in my head, I’ve seen it all:

The cold touch of the walking dead—skinny and tall.

The untamed sun on my naked skin—mighty and raw,

The pungent taste of terror and war.

Militant and supercilious—

It’s not how you read it in your mirror.

The deafening cries of impoverished masses,

In their own land, they ask for passes

Lucid orbs stolen from right under their noses.

And that sickening smell of oppression?

It feeds my fury—

It unmasks the face behind what they call “progress.”

Resplendence—the mask worn by cowards in crowds, dazzling only to the blind.

She tries to shut me in,

Lures me with opulence and sin.

Resists my birth and tightens her hold—

But their cries are the hormones of my persistence.

The Moses of my time—

Possession? Possession of a third eye is my crime.

Let me out. Let me out!

Let me free my people—

For I am at my prime.

Rebirth.

Reincarnation.

I am King.

I am Moses.