Woken up to the sounds of his saw;
The jarring noise took me from a calm
Sleep. Only six hours ago had it been night
When I laid sleeping with my love.
For years I never had a dream
Until the first time he said my name. "Grace?"

He asked walking towards me. "Your name is Grace,
Right?" In front of me I saw
My future. When I slept that night I had a dream.
For all the times he spoke to me I felt calm
In who I was. He was the one who made me love
Myself once again: even in the darkest night.

I saw myself grow like a child with him. Night
Was no longer full of fear. Welcomed with grace,
I joined his life.  Enchanted whit how much one man could love
So many things. Passion in everything he did. He saw
Beauty in the bare trees. Remaining calm
When the world around me fell, he showed me to turn my dream

Into a literal vision. My dream
Was meant for the world; not to be hidden by the night.
He wanted to help create my dream, and when I lost my calm,
He was always behind me for backup. "Grace,
We're going to create the life you want." I saw
The light in his eyes. I fell in love.

The house we would build was full of love,
dedication to each other, respect for the dream.
The amazement in his expression when he saw
It come to life was worth the pains. At night
We stayed up, whispering until exhaustion. "Goodnight, Grace"
It wasn't until I heard those worlds I felt calm

With myself, with the world. Calm
That this was finally my life. The love
I had for him for filling my life with grace.
With him it came true. My dream
Became our reality. But night
Was still sad, for when I closed my eyes and my love I no longer saw.

When I woke up, I didn't mind the sound of the saw.
The sound was a reminder of his love,
And he only loved me: Grace.

Side by side fighting in rounds,
etching drawings in our skin cut by cut.
Hoping and praying that the vitriol
of the infection’s symptoms are sporadic;
that the wave of pain comes only in bursts.
Infection acting as a hallucinogen creating visions.

Yet it is in these sought after visions
we see battles as if they’re in rounds.
And in these battles the bullets fly in bursts,
where we see lives all cut
short. The lives taken are random and sporadic,
despite the takers lack of vitriol.

Like the poison of hatred and vitriol,
seeping through the mind like mirages and visions,
after drought and famine and natural sporadic
disasters wrought on different rounds
of dystopia — some of the battles we fight are cut
short and experienced like explosions, in bursts.

Sometimes our fights are drowned in shots and bursts,
with alcohol or drugs or other vitriol.
Maybe the vitriol is the blood we drink from the cut
on our wrists bringing us to the brink, with a vision
of our lives flashing before our eyes in rounds
like candid imagery. They seem sporadic.

However, although the images seem sporadic,
whether it be soldiers fighting firing guns in bursts,
or two kids fighting trading rounds,
like a man finding his wife’s lover with vitriol
in his heart, they all connect with a vision
of something where hatred is simply cut.

Where we can find personal and general wars cut
from textbooks and any person’s sporadic
memory. Where men have “a vision”
to “improve” a utopia. When men questioned men’s bubbles bursts.
Then they seethe and fester and ferment their vitriol,
like alcohol until ultimately feeding into the cycle. Then they fire their rounds.

Either at people or their own heads, their rounds
are found on the floor next to the sporadic, fallen gore. Their vitriol
lying next to the deceased vision of perfect around lives cut short, taken in bursts.

Rain falls like a lead sheet beating
ages on my back. The water rises,
but through the muddiness of the dividing sea  
your light stands clear. You stand 
beyond my riverside,
the birth of Venus before my eyes.

Skin like seafoam and eyes
like amber coax my hands into fists, beating
ripples into your image that not even the riverside
rain and my own reflection could rise
over. As the waves ripple across your cheeks, I stand
to remember you are also across this sea.

Caught between this love like religion, the sea
breeze makes poetry of your hair in the wind, and my eyes
have never been drowned deeper. I have never had to stand
a love so murderous; even your mirror image gives my soul a beating.
All the while, the water rises,
crashing against the riverside.

Across the riverside,
your gaze is resolute and colder than the sea.
The sun rises,
to find her light breaking the horizon with her eyes
that held back whirlpools, beating
my soul with crashing waves of division, which I can no longer stand.

Too deep to stand,
dangers of the divide bound my desire. A prisoner to the riverside.
The chains of star-crossed lovers crash with the waves, beating
my sense into sea.
Pain is no stranger to your eyes.
The beauty of the sea would always rise.

Hurricanes beat you into perfection and you rise
and stand
above the ordinary eyes.
Storm-beaten and Tempest-tossed on this riverside,
A godly daughter of the ominous sea
has overcame a beating.

Beyond the riverside,
across the sea,
my heart is beating.

In a house
Near the loch
Awaits a bride
For her wedding day.
Soon her groom
Will take her hand.

Extending his hand,
At his father’s house,
Out reaches the groom
Toward the loch
Saying, “in a handful days
I will have my bride.”

Meanwhile the bride,
With her gentle hand,
Writes the day
On invitations in her house;
Sending thoughts across the loch
Toward her groom.

Simultaneously the groom
Thinks of his bride,
Receiving her thoughts from the loch.
His promise on her hand,
Hers is in his father’s house,
But he won't see it until the day.

In just a few short days
With his friends the groom
Will leave his father’s house
And await the bride
To take her hand
At the ceremony near the loch.

And in the city of the loch
Their lives most historic day
Will be when they take each other’s hands
And the groom
Will have his bride
And will make a home of their house.

But until then… Toward the loch the groom,
Awaiting the appointed day of his bride,
With lovesickness stretches his hand toward her house.

The city is shut, sparing its prey until tomorrow. Night rules, dreams creep down the street, eyes dead
Her poised being is the center of universe, that girl
She is loath to beg yet for the twenty fourth time of the night she sings out, God?
It’s two in the morning and they are sitting at the balcony, God and her, both holding a cigarette
Mother and father are in screaming colors but she is, only, the darkest blue
Two of them are contradiction, a vexing rendezvous but they yearn for each other so once in a while they talk

People talk
A boy across the house is found dead
Parents roaring, raging, crashing the ground, he’s wearing a pair of new basketball shoes. Blue.
He is one of million, a delicate kind, very comely, a subtle presence. Neighbors murmur maybe God
fell in love, maybe God enraptured by the boy. But God is peeking behind the closed door with the girl
Between their fingers still a burning cigarette

Maybe it’s the taste of Marlboro Red, the girl
wishing an epiphany, a revelation, for its been too long, the girl and God
writing each other’s eulogy. The girl has been dead for God and God has been dead
for the girl, ruptured for a very long time, there’s no way back. No long talk
can fix the burn of cigarette,
the eternal crippling affliction taped up in every cavity inside the holy temple of their body

A lady in the house with doors and windows painted blue
is murdered. She was having a dalliance and neighbors talk
behind their open bible. God cringes, God recoils, her god is a beige-tied, cigarette
scented with hair slicked back. She was in his thrall, calls her name in a mesmerizingly fetching way making her girl
again, an ingénue with a pair of chatoyant eyes. Bodies clashing, her muse, they fuse, he choose to ruse, dead,
God is amused, time is lapsed, but perhaps she was not divine. A lady in someone’s car trunk, murdered, dear God!

Inhaling. Conflating. Cigarette
smoke all over the veins. A bright blue
car parked across the street. A week since the boy died. A week since the lady went missing. People talk
about somewhere this week another dead
body is going to be found. Maybe in the park under the slide or on a high school bleacher, like the girl found God
under her bed. The first encounter of God and the girl.

God
and the girl run out of cigarette
counting the days God and the girl
Next time won’t be cigarette and balcony. God and the girl next time at a bar with blue
sign where sinners and saints sipping absinthe because God won’t talk
to anyone but the girl. God and the girl sipping absinthe because the city is shut. Eyes dead.

No father could ask for A son so bright
I can't promise you a perfect example
Afraid of what I may inspire
But with me here at least there is hope
A glimmer of light for the next generation
Starts with you wanting to learn

The best defense for life is to learn
Never be afraid to let your gift shine bright
Don't expect to fit in with your generation
But do expect to lead them by example
Understand that you are part of what is left of hope
You were born to inspire

Seek out how you will inspire
In the allotted time knowledge is yours to learn
Time alloted is prolonged we hope
Because your future is bright
Turn those that doubt you into examples
Let positive thoughts come into generation

Pray for your generation
Appreciate those you inspire
Dont let the system make you an example
Ignorance does not uphold in the court of law so you must learn
Jail is not for the bright and dims hope

No matter the situation never be deserted by hope
Always keep in mind A new generation
Never let skin complexion twist your judgment to whats wrong isn't bright
Burry your eyes in archives Black Egyptians will inspire
Our proper history you will learn
It is then you dont expect but begin to lead by example

Like Malcolm X or Dr. King for example
Someone has to rekindle the hope
History teaches but we didnt learn
As for your generation
Hopefully something will inspire
Something with a soul, something real, something bright...

Can you tell me the best way to live
when I left it all up to chance?
Followed the yellow brick road, followed its lead
unaware of the looming shadow
that hung in the air as the sky turned dark,
I face the reality that the world is not safe.

No one here is safe;
but they play by the rules to live.
Within the midst of the dark-
ness, they find a chance;
an opportunity in the shadow,
where will it all lead?

There’s a taste of lead
in my mouth that makes me feel safe.
My actions shadow
over me, playing live
in my head, over and over for a chance
to pull me into the dark.

His eyes glow a dark
red, as the taste of lead
seeps between my lips as a chance
to feel a little more safe.
The video feed is live
but no one noticed the shadow.

In the background, there's a shadow
of hate that lingers in the dark.
Feeding of your life to live,
closer to the darkness it'll lead
us far from the safe
we hid in for a chance.

You never had  a chance
because standing under the shadow
made you feel safe.
Disguised as the antidote, dark
chocolate filled with the bitter taste of lead;
this is the way to live.

It’s lurking in the dark
just watching in your shadow.
"Brought to you live."

When the trees grow old
And the wind begins to blow
The branches sway back and forth
And the leaves begin to fall.
The bark starts to peel,
And the roots grow weaker and weaker.

But if we climb that tree,
If we reach the very top,
We notice the clouds in a clear sky
And how they sway to the left,
Sway to the right,
Listening to what the wind tells them to do.

So if we jump to the clouds
We can look down and see
Everything going on
From a different perspective.
Our point of view sways one way
Or another because of what we want to see.

We can see it all for miles,
We can see the world from here.
We can see young ladies swaying their hips,
We can see the ocean’s waves crash.
We can see each spec of waste
We can see whatever we please to find.

But this is unnerving
And this is not how we want to discover
So we hop back to the swaying branches.
We sit and ponder our visions,
We can imagine all of the possibilities
That we have just encountered.

We can see that our tree
Is just as strong,
Is just as gorgeous
As that young woman swaying her hips,
As the ocean’s waves.
The peeling bark uncovers fresh sap
And the tree’s roots regenerate strong.

When the trees grow old and the wind begins to blow,
We sit on the branches, and sway our feet
Hundreds of feet above, and write poetry to our imagination.