Life is short, time is running out
Mama's ark is too old to fill my plate
It is time for me to follow the waves
following streams of consciousness
in a glass of tears from the moon
Meanwhile I cuddle with the darkness
hoping it will lead to the promised land
where hellhounds are meant to bark
We flinch, we dodge to grab a plate
casting spells to fit in the dine session
using my wizards and their clerics
Still I weave masterpieces on sentient dust
while I remain the master in pieces
Flipping pages, stained with Mama's tears
in a foreign country without her warmth
trying not to fall in the drainage pipes
of this junkyard, seeking to discard me
I've grown too frail and too odd
that breathing has become a struggle
The grains of my grime are hard to analyze
today am painting yellow dots into sun
tomorrow the sun into yellow dots
From a dancing child to a crying star
I can't couple with peers in Mama's ark
so I keep walking on corridors
of dead philosophical moonstones
wailing out words that mean walls
My poem and prose become lukewarm
and fill my cosmic skull with twisted questions
What if the ark was never meant to be my savior?
What if the ark is never meant to be a revolution?
what if the ark is meant to coexist with my lie and your truth?
What if truth was never meant to be a trendsetter?
What if true truth was never meant to be true?
©lamin
L