“Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees,”
Billie Holiday sang in 1939.
Those bodies don’t swing no more,
no, they lay in the streets for hours in the hot sun.
Moses said let my people go, now we say,
let my people live.
Dr. King prayed for a day when this would
all end, but here we are still fighting.
Peaceful as a dove, we marched and scream
until our lungs give out, but to no avail, we still die.
A time of peace may come, but rainbows only
appear after the rain; this storm isn’t over yet.

Too young, too soon.
I can count on one hand
how many times I held you,
Sleepy little thing.

Bright eyes, wide and ancient
you stared right through me
like you knew who I was
the moment we met,
Sleepy little thing.

All I ask is that you
wave to the sun for me
kiss the stars for me
say hi to the moon for me,
Sleepy little thing.

I loved you more
in those few weeks then
I ever thought possible
but you rest and I’ll
meet you in the clouds one day,
Sleepy little thing.

Hey Dark Eyed Child
I see you weeping.
Who gave you those
tears in your eyes?

People I once loved, she said.

Hey Dark Eyed Child
I see you sleeping.
Who put those dreams
in your head?

I got them from the clouds and stars, she said.

Hey Dark Eyed Child
I saw your heart the other day
Who shattered that
beautiful soul?

Man did, she sighed.

Hey Dark Eyed Child
I see you making your own way
Who gave you that light
I see you shining with?

The sun just up and kissed me, she beamed.

Hey Dark Eyed Child
I know you tired of
hearing me speak but
I just had to ask,
who made you?

Me, she grinned, I did.

Through passion I live,
through stagnation I die,
through diligence I am reborn.

Over all things my word is my blood.
It lives as I live slipping through
my veins and into my heart.

I put pen to paper and vanquish my
demons. When the words stop
flowing, I can’t get going.
I fall into dreamless slumber.

Within silence lies my fallen comrades.
Murdered by delerium and conceit.
They dwell in the realm between shadows
drowning in thick, palpable darkness.

I must be lucky to have not perished
under the weight of my predecessors
for the road is long and weary.

But when the oceans of my soul
get to stirring, the tempest roams
searching for dreamy outlet in starless
skies of ruby and amber. I concede.
My blood has won.