"narrates" poems
I wear beads and African bracelets for beauty. I forget why the people before me wore them. I wear them with pride not because I earned them but because I simply look beautiful. Beautiful!? What does that even mean? My Nana has scars on her body. She shows them to me with pride. Narrates stories of the war in the past like an action movie only she didn't have a gun only bows and poisonous arrows. The missing teeth in her mouth causes her to spit almost every second she talks. But this embarrassment is only felt by me. She is proud of the hole in her mouth. Suddenly I feel the urge to remove my African beads. They have no meaning only that they are African and I am and so am entitled. But I have done nothing for my heritage. Not even fight for it. Slowly it's being forgotten and people are crossing over without a care in the world. 'To civilisation' we say. 'For the good of the people' we say. But is it? We were a community wrong as we were to circumcise women, marry them off at an early age, burn the wrong... We were a community. We loved each other. We cared. We taught our children how to feel and be the earth. We taught our children to respect the earth and in return the earth blesses us with herbs to cure. What did they call it? Aaah yes 'witchcraft'. We were not animals who forget their children in pit latrines or by the river side just because we cannot afford them or don't want them. We cared not of individualism because together we grew in spirit, body and soul. It was not backward it was culture. And culture is flexible. It can change but can never be terminated. It is not a shoe that when you grow out of you throw and buy another.
And so I am not telling you to go back to your roots because if am quite honest you were never in it. Rather embrace it. See how 'civilised' you will feel then.
yours
The Red_Head
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 3:08 AM UTC
My creativity has created this creation.
The outcome of my creation reflects only to the Creator.
The inner Narrator narrates a repetitive monologue.
Believe me, I've seen the films, and I've read that ******* blog.
Long logging of nights.
Internal.
External.
Fights.
Anger lasts.
I employed that past to take power away from fear.
Aware now of being here.
Consciousness.
Humbleness.
This doesn't come from admission.
Remission of a previous mission.
My dispositions constriction from speaking up.
**** that.
That cup.
That rig.
Spoon.
***
Drug.
Love is what I need.
Love is what I give.
Creating only a creation to love to live.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
Prescient, her essence
Casts a demure persuasion,
Endowed with verve and vision;
Concept to consummation,
The serenely possessed,
Creator, originator,
Allusion to the eternal azure,
Logos of abstraction,
Word and image collision.
Tonal palette of faith infused reason
Beauty and sublimity,
Serve to season
Verse, canvas and film,
Mediating aesthetic, seminal senses blossom,
Lyrical each permutation,
Seeds of vibrant chroma diffusing the mystical.
Visage and hair, her figure haunted
With perfection - a work of Art
Nurtured and lived invocation,
The canon of taste;
Crystal for the *****
Devotional fragrance ,
Holistic ethos, melodic invention,
Animated, pure -
The embodiment of redemption.
Transcending form, parenthetically
(Merely) the decorative,
Allure, artistry and symmetry
Superlative complexity,
Her erudition satiates, supplanting
Winds of constructive banality.
Purveyor of an uncommon savor,
She collaborates in the peculiar
Pursuit and reward,
Encounter with depth, explored,
Human and divine, prosaic meets sublime
Igniting within an Eros
Passion for truth, being and Telos.
Visionary of grace and peace
Transforming our earthbound dissonance;
Our caprice,
Hope and abundance, the myth of scarcity,
She narrates the Good.
Pen, lens, color and stage
Vulnerable, unrepressed, effusive
Romantic articulation,
The reservoir deep,
Innately primed conduit of Love.
Beyond plebeian, cosmetic, the trite
Woman of substance, pulchritude
And delight.
Effervescent - her smile exquisite,
Eclipsing suffering,
Wordless expression, understood language.
I am transported, my imagination replete,
Sonya Rose -
Art personified; unabridged, complete.
©2008 & 2013 W.S . Warner
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
Sequestered stream flows tranquil
It’s journey from an unknown origin
Traveling through varied landscapes
Carrying stories from lands afar
Listen to faint murmur with keen ears
Narrates the stories from its chronicle
You, an unknown traveler, alone
Waiting by its side to drink from the stream
To quench the thirst that’s within
The contradictions and distractions
Casualties of the unrelenting world
Finally, your steps have led to this stream
It flows, in spite of the challenges
Cuts through every hurdle with resolve
The messenger carries stories and life
Breathing life with its tranquil presence
Drink from the stream, replenish your resolve
Think not of the hurdles and distractions
You are to flow through this life
Carrying the anecdotes and memories
Be like the stream, and rejuvenate every life
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 12:20 AM UTC
A famous ship that set sailed
The name “Titanic” a cruise liner marked for preserver, but something down the line failed
The Titanic made it’s way over the seas
Yet on the deck the passengers were treated to an endless breeze
As the music played an elegant melody
The feeling of majestic royalty within red carpet hospitality
This was the first of the Titanic voyage
History in the making for sure
But will the Titanic reach destined shore?
A final night that everyone narrates and regrets
As the doomed cruise liner continued on the waves
Disaster struck with thoughts on did the waves behave
Panic was among the travelling passengers
The passengers being distinguished in the category of who’s who
There was a special passenger and I will give you a clue
The insignia of R.H.
I didn’t give the last name as I am trying to see if you figured out what R.H. stands for
You will be surprised in galore
The passenger was Rowland Hussey Macy
The name associates with MACY’S DEPARTMENT STORE
A store you probably shop today
But Mr. Macy perished on board the ship “Titanic”
Yet he was a man of the seas by way of Merchant ****** from Nantucket
But the Titanic was constructed to be unsinkable
However the situation does make one think as what really happened on the Titanic?
A mystery of the seven seas
Let your mind wander but feel at ease
All the passengers perished, and their soul’s went to thee.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
His hair so rich and thick
Spiraling upward higher and higher
Voluminous in appearance
Bold in its statement
Copious curls demanding attention
Natural, beautiful and free flowing
Standing tall to whomever it encounters
Sunlight beaming into its brown hue
It tells a story of bloodline and culture
Narrates history, prejudice, acceptance
Perseverant by nature
Resilient against criticism
I worship his hair from a distance
Yearning to feel it in between my fingers
Kiss his strands one by one
Inhale its scent like aromatherapy
Aug 6, 2019
Aug 6, 2019 at 1:30 PM UTC
Suddenly, the silence prevails
and approaches me with a verdant orb
in it's hands
The cold wind is passing by
gesturing my reverie
Sometimes harshly
like frozen needles piercing
your naked body
Sometimes softly
like sun beams clasping
your naked soul
Around me blooms
of every hue and for every mood
Each one narrates it's own tale
My shadow revolves around
a cold emerald
I am that colour now
It escorts me to the carriage
of the winter I was longing for
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 11:09 AM UTC
*
I drank YOUR SOUL
From your intoxicating eyes
I became dazzled by your beauty
I called YOU
"My BELOVEDz God/dess"
I became an INFIDEL LOVERZ
As an INFIDEL what I will say now
Will remain as "THE TRUTH"
Because a LOVER on cross
Sacrificed for LOVE
Never utters a LIE,
Only narrates the Sacred Word
Of The Creator All-Mighty
My BELOVEDz existence is
Like hundred SUN shining
The whole world is
annihilated by her illumination
The one who stands on feet,
Without fear or without being scared
The one who faces
The inner LIGHT of BELOVEDz Noor
Becomes an INFIDEL LOVER
Ready to face the cross and crucifixion
Vulnerable, shy, shrunk,
Surrendered and cut to pieces
The infidel LOVER will not run away but
Stand firm to the POST to claim
The INFIDEL cries for "BELOVEDZ"
"I am BELOVEDz, BELOVEDz is me"
Sword, arrows, enemies of LOVE
Attacks, sticks, punches, strikes
Shocks, cut, blade, beatings
Scars, bloods, limbs and pieces
And the INFIDEL dies
Just like that... with
**"BELOVEDz breathe rested in
INFIDEL LOVERz half-open eyes"**
Watching this spectator of
ENDLESS ETERNAL AGAPE LOVE
The world's anger against INFIDEL
Flows away like a small twig
They realize that
Cutting a LOVERz into pieces
With humiliations and weapons
Was of no use
Because they realize that
They not only killed an INFIDEL
But also killed LOVE and humanity
*
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 12:45 AM UTC
62
“Sown in dishonor”!
Ah! Indeed!
May this “dishonor” be?
If I were half so fine myself
I’d notice nobody!
“Sown in corruption”!
Not so fast!
Apostle is askew!
Corinthians 1. 15. narrates
A Circumstance or two!
2.1k
We are on this
Colossal crystal ball
Holds secrets
Of this universe
Its origin unknown
Maybe it
Carried life forms
From all planets
Multiple universes
A microscopic replica
Of the macroscopic universe
Secret origins
Our minds unable to investigate
Visions not perceptive
Lacks the depth
Cannot read from the crystal ball
History is concealed
At its core
Forces which created this
Was aware not to reveal much
The crystal ball narrates
In its mystical waves
Only for the select few
In harmony, can decipher
The mystery of the crystal ball
Life will continue
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 11:29 PM UTC
There's something special about someone
you can lie awake in bed with all day,
Seeing you with your knotted hair and morning face
and still thinking you're someone worth kissing.
You can find it in the way they lie in any position at all
as long as it's wrapped around your body,
The way that they ignore every responsibility they'd said was so important
because laughing with you, your face buried in their neck,
is the single thing that surpasses everything else the world demands of them.
You’ve each held others before, the same way.
Limbs intertwined as many ways as can be found,
touching as much of their skin with yours as your shapes will allow.
You've explored the unknown inches of someone's body and
felt the chill down your spine when they did the same.
You’ve held others before,
but that doesn’t make it any less spectacular.
His legs feel different against yours than any you’ve felt before.
His lips are a new taste, a new shape,
a new, original kind of magic.
He makes different sounds as he falls asleep
and sometimes he narrates his dreams.
His face takes a different shape when he’s about to kiss you,
and a different shape yet when he only wishes he could.
His hands find new resting places on your frame
separate from those anyone else has discovered
and he’s found new words, still, to send
fluttering into the pit of your stomach
and color your cheeks a shade
that you pray he can’t see in the dark.
There’s something special about someone
you can lie in bed with at night,
Listening to your stories that never come out right,
if they ever come out at all,
and still trying to convince you that
you’ve got something worthwhile to say.
There’s something special about someone
who holds potential to make you feel a new feeling.
Whose mystery still intrigues you
and whose company still satisfies you,
Whose stories you still care to hear
and whose lips are still an enticing thought.
And he’s clearly insane,
But you’re really happy that
with your knotted hair and morning face,
he still thinks you’re someone worth kissing.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
Night Train, travel through the world unknown
The black hills with a maroon sky thick behind it
The metallic sound of friction valiantly losing battle to the poignant silence
Night Train, write an epic of the hands that cup around the eyes
Of the eyes that talk to the distant light
Of the lights that blink and the ones that stay still
Night Train, don't slow down for each breath falls faster than the wind outside
Night Train, don't slow down for the still is more piercing than the dark blades of grass lying far below
The rhythmic oscillation of the half sleeping bodies stacked one above the other
The threatening aura of the stiff backbones stoically awake
The lone observer is lost in the nightly delusion
Night Train, chronicle a dark fantasy of the broken fragments the night narrates
Night Train, stop, send a jolt, deaden the incantations
Before the dawn or its harbingers intrude
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 2:16 AM UTC
A harsh wind kisses my fingers into sleeping.
Blurring the movement on the toggles of an anorak,
But my eyes dart quick, oiled and fleeting,
searching for my beloved old salt, looking back.
Funny, how in those footprints,
the piercing night that bites the ears and cries
can feel as soft as sheets
washed in the light of the moon, pulled by the tide.
this darkness which surrounds us.
it makes the world one of thrashing silhouettes
And as the earth breathes in gusts
It gives calmness to a mind, to comfortably forget
this, lulled swoon of nature pulsating hits
the windows, we can't help to be animated.
we cannot be closed to it, cannot obscure it
the call of the waves that past fishermen created.
pausing, that sun-baked, sinuous arm rose
and peering through his cigarette smoke specters.
the steam of my own breathing, softly froze
As the sky illuminated my weary lenses.
the theatre of sky before us fight light polluted filling
My mind left wandering like waking sleep.
These gladiators of light bleed ochre from shining artillery,
Their particles drifting into the night's sea, so deep.
Sparks spat by suns lie suspended above me
held like dew in nets of celestial string.
as the sunlight comes peering through these
the intensity in a pinprick, unearthly passion within.
lancing the sky too are spears of my dreaming
as neon cobras strike and churn to flee.
these heaven-borne beings carving visual song
Cutting luminescent pathways into my memory.
The soundless iron giant is now still as a caryatid.
Holding me before that blacksmith showered light.
an artist plucks flaming dewdrops from the wind
illuminating my foray into this night.
I sensed a small piece of gene pierce his yang
a black taint to his overall brightness.
In my black yin a spark from him i hang
and I'm proud of the infections we posses.
As he narrates this landscape, he narrates himself.
a new side to a shape I felt I knew.
As far into feelings as his masculine paradigm delved
like a square’s seventh face, always hidden from view.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
There’s a man that sits on a bench.
He has his small notebook that he cast his thoughts into like a fishing line.
He’s trying to catch all the reasons he’s ******* up so he can gut them into chum, lure sharks and jump in with them because he know they won’t eat something that is already dead.
There’s a man that sits on a bench.
he has his small notebook that he hides his secrety into.
It’s no vault, but he keeps it close to his chest, clutched by the undying insecurity that someone might sneak in.
He would lock it inside his ribcage but he can’t remember who he gave the key to…
There’s a man that sits on a bench.
He has his small notebook that he paints his mind onto.
He has his black pen, it is his brush.
He narrates the paintings artists haven’t made yet,
puts meaning behind his dreams and makes sculptures out of his pain, chiseled away with the positivity that he could turn something ugly, beautiful.
There is a man that sits on a bench.
He closes his notebook.
He gets up, and he stretches his limbs.
He walks away, wondering
what will i write next.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
Echoing thoughts
Silence between us
And gravity never felt heavier,
I said words that cracked the silence like lightning
and crashed into some of hers
She never spoke after,
Well not full sentences, slight words and mumbles
Perfection like sleep always seems to elude me
We stayed up,
We stood still, with echoing thoughts in our mind of what we should of said.
The lines on her face narrates,
How are you going to lose interest when I just got used to you?
How are you going to lose interest when I just got used to you.
How are you going to lose interest when I just got used to you...
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 3:06 PM UTC
Crackling. Rocking. Crackling. Creaking and oscillating, a century old Mahogany Wood seceded to the paSsage of time.
Particles of sand, confounded by the Peninsula’s chaotic, blasting breeze now revealed a shade of burnt tar.
Outside of the second floor Maissonette, sways the rocking chair once warmed by Grandpa.
A Tactless, impatient, rhythmic Requiem Bashes near the wiNdow pane as the sunset falls Under the frame.
Empty Folklore presides like the Residue of a once lambent effigy… SwOosh. Hush!
Cocktails were a Preamble to lunch like diabetes to Nephropathy.
Corrosive Rhetoric seeped in to expose the ego of a Sommelier.
A smile would Parachute down when you needed it like Nicotine to remind that no Precedent had been set, just an Anomaly.
Cutthroat beginnings, this was no Analog man.
In grade school his Cosmos found Zion and “The world to come”.
This baby’s Cradle, abandoned High atop a mountain was blown by a Chinook towards the Atlantic.
“I was found swallowed in a stained Table cloth by Balkan children on a treasure hunt, with no Guarantee and no resignatIon. "
The boTtle narrates these chronicles and a smile parachutes down when you need it like nicotine.
Dionysus Crafted his accounts while most Garnered his spiels with Snide. As they witnessed dream remembrance; he thought his memory was Presumably accurate, and although his tales were triFling to the gathering audience, they became his Heliocentric history.
Calling me a young Galleon and handing me a map, Grandpa scanned his hand across the vast land
guaranteeing trEasure would be found if I had no resignation.
This Asinine assertion to my teenage sister Symbolized the Barring of her unheeding imagination by time and then a smile parachuted down just when she needed it like nicotine.
_TRF
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
Woke up late
The issues of yesterday still intact,
Turned the pillow to the cool side,
And opened the window.
Tried to race my shadow down the stairs.
Bade family "Good day" and nestled on the couch.
Nothing narrates your day better than a
"Previously on..."
Took too long deciding what to do with my morning
that it became afternoon, time is sneaky like that.
Walked to the store with no intent,
I have a gift, I always end up in the feminine hygiene aisle or the ***
Played some music louder than I should have,
my reasoning was if my bones don't vibrate then
the heavens won't be able to hear it either.
Was scared by a big dog even though it was muzzled.
Came back home, one armpit was sweatier than the other.
Lungs collapsing but I felt the doubts and ire abating.
Checked in with my people and cared about what they had to say.
It's dark now, the pillow is heating up for another long night.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 5:21 AM UTC
She deserves recognition
For her work as a technician
Who's expertise is ball bustin
Who majors in ********
Excelling in the field of advance
Hot air production
A profession heckler who
Composes an orchestra conductin
A firework show eruptin
With colorful rants red, and purples
She's acclaimed for rhetorical
Questions that repeats in circles
An elite linguistics scholar
Who's sarcasm is an accomplishment
Very talented...no gifted at making
An insult sound like a compliment
And Her stamina to do so
Is like an Olympian who's pleased
Only when her track and field
Meet of slander makes ur ears bleed
A masters degree in belittling
A graduated philosopher for the bitter
Must be a psychologist the way
She attacks my sanity to litter
Insecurities, and doubts and I
Heard she has a phd in hypnosis
Until u start to believe her ********
And this psychosomatic is ur psychosis
A world class magician who's
Tricks leave u perplexed in thought
A novelist who narrates to taunt
Controlling all characters and plot
She wrote the book on torturing
A man and emasculating him so
He may never move forward and
She was in the military I'm told
Historically known for her
intellectual Warfare
Manipulating soilders and utilizing
The grounds to ambush u there
A social tyrant who's brilliant
Political ties help her achieve
Her plan like constituents are
Biased so they're all after me
A paralegal who's unfair and lethal
And to her it's titalation
Unfair is her terms but like a
Perm ull get burned in litagation
A degree in early childhood
Education so she acts like a rebel
Perfecting being childish and
Unaffected by ur feelings on levels
Only a schoolyard bully could
Match, she's my jailhouse warden
Who's power is focused on me
Relentlessly constructing like a foreman
With Her future blueprints to
See what the hell she builds for me
Will look like, and she's also a director
In the *********** industry
So she tells in great detail
Just how I'll be ******
She must have been taught by
Peter pan how to never grow up
Trained as medic who specializes
In one area over them all
Nudering human males
So surgically she removes my *****
After she breaks them and
So I am the constant fool
This exceptional jack of trades
Makes me wish that I stayed in school
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
You are no longer my strange angel.
Every step that you take narrates a story that I am no longer part of;
The sound of your footsteps shall no longer affect the rhythm of my heartbeat.
You may look away whenever you want and it shall never make me shiver.
You may spit sunlight from your smile and it shall no longer hurt my eyes.
You no longer have the right to cause such blood rush in my veins.
You no longer have the key to unlock the room on which I wait.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 10:32 PM UTC
Prompt: Persona narrates what witnesses to a tragic accident do after the accident is over.
Two days ago, Melody Nixon drowned after her car spun off the I90 Bridge and plunged into the water, trapping her inside her car like a prison.
She was hit by a drunken college student, who wrongly
assumed he was well enough to drive without any problem.
On that night, Melody’s death was witnessed by two others. The first was Susan Baker, a successful business woman who spent more time in her office making plans and making deals to remember she was a mother.
The second witness was Walter Price, a malignant *** who lived under the I90 Bridge during the summer. He had just felt the smooth familiar burn of his whiskey as it slid down his throat when he saw the two cars collide.
After the accident, Mrs. Baker took a week off work and flew her family to Disney World, her sudden epiphany warning her to spend more time with her children.
Walter Price took one last sip of his whiskey and smashed the bottle against the side of the bridge swearing it as his last drink; a hope for a different life.
Melody’s father; however, could not seem to shake away the anger and the hurt
from losing his daughter in such a tragic way. This was why the night of the funeral, he picked up a bottle of Captain Morgan and took his first swig of alcohol, starting his inevitable downfall, a routine pattern of crawling inside the bottle when reality became too much to bear.
May 15, 2011
May 15, 2011 at 8:06 PM UTC
in loving memory of Maurice Sendak ...
Our cage is painted royal blue.
A computer checks the locks.
The Judge left his decision on
Our mirror drawn in chalk.
God narrates cruel calendars.
Thieves rip out the last page.
The crowd drowns in His smile,
As the Liar takes the stage.
A boy who built a ladder asks,
"What is outside over there?"
The men say, "just a parking lot."
A girl sings, "Its a dare."
Her movie light licks cave walls,
Monsters dancing drum drip seed
For forever forest's Night Kitchen,
As Mother bakes in the key.
We are wild like tears running,
Free like wind against her thigh,
Loved like rain drops on the burn,
Like lovers stretch for sky.
2012
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 2:07 PM UTC
Hold to your seats and sit back as the museum unfolds
No need for viewers to walk
Speak softly in your talk
As one enters the museum in the tour to begin
Your seat is a moving auditorium and you will be taking the museum in
It isn’t until when
The museum starts in a maneuver move
A silent and relaxed setting having everything to prove
An Historian Statue narrates
History with events in numerous pasts and you will go back into history fast
Various statues seemed to come alive
However, I am not talking jive
Emotions in the look back rang high
There were touching moments when some viewers cried
A Father, Wife and Child separated during a war
Actual 1776 documents in what viewers saw
Stage after Stage, a Civil War demonstrated right before the viewer’s eyes
Understanding is what makes people wise
Still there was so much to explore
This is one museum no one will want to ignore
The revolving museum opens the next curtain
This I know all will be certain
This is President Obama I gave the Presidency my every try
But now my term is up and I must see goodbye
Revolve leading in history where problems were solved
The viewers got a journey into adventure
The Revolving Museum says thanks for your visit
So come back anytime when
So long and see you when you can.
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
Adoringly applauding
Arrogant acrobatic aristocratic,
Bourgeois bad-boys.
Braving boredom and bills,
Caught controlling criminal
Circles like a circus.
Daring to do, and to deceive
Desperate damsels in distress,
Each accepting enemies.
Everyone explaining elements
From the final fights
Frought with frustration.
Getting groovy- grown old
Garnering glittering gold.
Holidaying in Getafé,
Holding onto hands of harlots,
Implying impotence and insolence,
Ignorant in their ilk.
Jovially joking,
Jesting about juvenile jealousies;
"I kissed Katie Kurtis"
Knowingly comments one kid.
Left to love and lose,
Like Caesar and his laurels,
Making music and malice,
Manifesting manic malpractices.
Natalie narrates,
"Not now, not ever".
Obvious obstacles avoided,
Objectifying objects that are obsolete.
Praying, pondering over pros,
False prophets photographed as they pose.
Qualifying quangos,
Quantitative quelling of queries,
Raising riots and runctions,
Realising regal and royal remedies,
Celebrating summer solstice,
Solitude is bliss.
Try tampering telephones
To transcribe threat of treason,
Unreal unilateral promises
Unwound by underlying urchins.
Vowing to voice very real values,
Vox pop video views.
Wearing water coloured wellingtons,
Wondering over wax cuneiform works.
Xylophone playing exemplary,
Xavier exists in the imaginary.
Yearly yearning for you,
You're yoked as Gonne with Yeats
(unequally)
Zeroing in on Ritz and Rubble,
Rubble the Zealots want to reign.
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 6:43 PM UTC
As thousands of migrants sojourned from Timbuktu
All destined for Libya from the ancient Kingdom of Mali,
One ,a patched lip skinny kid , greeted them''Assalamualaikum''
''Why are we dying in Libya ?'' asks the young migrant called Ali.
For several months , everyday , from sunset to sunrise
Ali said he too dreamed of being a part of the mass migration
'' Oh my dear brothers, I wish your plans were otherwise ''
For many of you will not reach your final destination.
Ali said Libya was the cradle of modern day slavery,
Death trap ,a magnate that lures desperate poor Africans
Escaping prosecution, economic hardships and poverty
Just for them to end up dead like sardines in cans.
Oh Africa Ali asks,where are all of your leaders?
What have we done to deserve this unspeakable evil?
Is it because of the hues of our beautiful black leathers?
When did we become the slavery anvil?
Man to man , is so unjust '' he quoted Bob Marley
'' But Arab to Black Africans is another sad story ! ''
'' Why are Black people being sold into slavery?
Why is the whole world sitting so supinely?
~ Ivan Brooks Sr ~
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 11:39 AM UTC