FILTHY RAG
The search of self
is an intramural confrontational combat
in field of land mines
spectated by all that conjoins within you
invaded by the contradictions within you
in Lombardian spirit we sojourn
by any means necessary
Wise words, spoken by the deaf.
They have prayed over river dams
turned water holy
bathed the infected with it
and still we emerge with it stamped on our brains
you curse me to shame
glue your ears shut
spieling your spiel of advice
always responding and never hearing
how can one teach me to walk on water
if they’ve never drowned
Watch me as I soak this rag in acetone
press your precious ears with it
so, these hertz can penetrate through your ear drum
vibrating down to your heart.
Do you hear me, cursed one?
Generational curses linger on until confronted
and today is the day
sound travels faster than light
but pain wins the race
They called it a filthy rug
carefully constructed by the devil himself
it convinces the brave to jump to nothingness
it kidnapped me
and submerged me in a lake of unworthiness
and the torture never ceases
but a path must be carved to cease
Ancestors press your ears in the atmosphere
recognise the chant of our souls
and let my spirit speak euphorically
to the wombs of my bloodline
Paternal and maternal alike
why am I draped in this rag
who lay this heavy burden upon me
I slept a thousand sleeps
lived a hundred lives
I am running from the sun
in search of bright darkness
and yet I am still haunted by
the morning madness that measures my mind
it replays and over and over and over
intrusive thoughts
intrusively dance in my mind
seducing me with the idea of heaven
murder by the tracks of the great city
knowing my cravings to fly to Jehovah
Our history speaks.
We aren’t touched by the devil’s hand but the divine
this is not a curse but a superpower
I am what you failed to be for me
I love the unloved like an oasis in the Sahara
I understand the misunderstood
I accompany the lonely
because I’ve danced in the void of despair
and the reckless love of Elohim chased me down
And gifted me the sweet, sweet hands of my womb bearer
And it saved my soul
for her fingers and prints are fearfully and
wonderfully made.
reattaching me, even only for a second to her womb
to remind me of the faithful truth that
Elohim is the one who knitted me in my mother’s womb
There is no curse to be broken
my filthy rags have been purified
