Her swarthy, glistening hair contrasts
With her clayey skin, her eyebrows spoke
Of rejection and desolation, her tear
Stained eyes ululating emotional trauma,
She is the one favored by this dissipating
Care and love, yet her iris portrays hope,
Hope hibernating under the skies of her
Eyelids, she earns sympathy from the
Perpetuators of her doom, sympathy
Garnished with the base alloy of pretense,
A hand to her chest, checking pulse and
Soothing her, another across her mouth,
To cease cries and constant wails,
She is mother Africa, of rich, fecund
Endowment, yet robbed of its fertility
By plain colored men who feign remorse.
YOU ARE READING
MIDNIGHT SUN
PoesieToday, we ought to wear our gauntlets, Put on our amour and canvass grits, Forward! Though our sword are skillets, We win even though we lost by bits.
