The atrocities that seeded my most youngest days,
A splice of soul & society - A boy maize.
Bitter crimes, made even more sour by time,
May they sweeten the fruit and not soften the rind.

A rear-view of my yesterdays
grew a darken vine
A truth,  darkness yields no harvest
This opaqueness is all mine.

I've heard no lies,
As I sat in this pickled brine.
that will make me mourn or cry
As I stand tall before the farmers scythe!

For as always, I stand alone.
And justice demands
A payment for the hands,
That reaped what they didn't sow
--