Why must my
torment be lamented
through song?
Like a son falling from the sky
with a smile as
bright as the sun
A constant chorus
tunnels through my ears
until they bleed–
a trail of crimson
against the swan
neck of my demise,
a ruby red flower
plucked too early from
Kore’s petulant brow.
A blooming weed or Nile lily
pushing past the grit
kissed my Isis’s loving lips.
A rage grows inside of me,
pushing and shoving and shouting
“Let me see!”
I battle against the
voices that plague me:
a rumbling baritone that dominates,
Yet only a true gardener
can truly predict
the fate of the bud.
Whispering sweet nothings
yet there are layers of poison
with each and every martyr’s breath.
The gardener surveys
his children with a
senators’ gait,
A man of many means
and important memos
and meetings,
His calloused hands
are browned by damnable
excuses that
Weed out my lies
and my misgivings
and my false prayers.
Pruned too early
by a sickle shaped hand,
I decay and wither,
A denouement
absent to many ears
that trembles on the last note.
Mecca-Amirah Jackson 