If you wait long enough and allow the silence that roams through the air to stream into your system, you will be lucky enough to see Her in Her wake. Who, you ask? Our Earth.
You can just about see Her blink in the clouds, and Her blue pupils in the vast sky. As she wakes Her little souldiers up and prepares the day for Her people. You can see a driven arachnid as it pulls for its little significant life up the bark of a strong standing tree that was able to handle its own through the night time, with none but a natural rope.
You can see the winged pilots as they take off into the open blue. If you listen carefully enough, maybe you can hear the sweet messages hidden in the midst of their honey-like twitter. You can see the newly dressed Autumn leaf let go of the water droplets it has used through the night as though sweating after a long night's work.
You can hear the young laughter of the first few children as they run about free in a field of their own, you can almost smell their candy-scented breaths. You can see the shadows of the trees as they drag away on the ground, just before they retire for the day. As the dusk progresses, The Sun smiles brighter because it knows that it has human spirits to cheer up, a human duty that it so happily performs.
In the night, I will thank Her for the beauty that she bears and welcome The Night with free sense, for He sings a beautiful lullaby to put Her and Her hard-working souldiers to rest.
And if you listen just right, you can hear His perfect rhythm of nature so that you may sleep as peacefully as She is.

An artist, creative and imaginative
Powerful enough to place, into mere words,
The phenomena that take place in his mind.

Marveled enough by his surroundings
That evoke anger, gratitude or happiness
His mind efficacious, his talent omnipotent.

Bourne of superior intellect
Taken in by souldiers of courage and
Raised by wisdom, pain and knowledge.

I'm No Poete, just a Mindless Writer.

Each day the Poete rises from his rest
Each day the Poete more powerful than the last
Each day the Poete expresses greatness from within.

Rhythm and brilliance flow deeply in his veins
Beauty created by the molding of his words
Truth is spoken through the realness of his verse.

Poete Prophet, able to see what's hidden beneath
He sees the lies abstruse in sugar-coated deceit
He reveals the fib's tales and makes them his gospel.

I'm No Poete, just a Mindless Writer.

Exquisite verse, natural and unrehearsed
The Poete will forever be mind blown
And continue to expose the joy in his word.

He writes not for tangible wealth or
Useless recognition, but he blesses his pen to paper for the simple appreciation of veracity.

The Poete steals sight from the blind,
He takes weakness from the strong,
And owns the shades of colour, all to create artistry.

See I'm No Poete, just a Mindless Writer.

I exist to resist all your heavy-headed hits. Your words in stone, more absolute than death.
The way you glance below your jagged bridge, a grin dried in arrogance.
Your footsteps frighten the earth, but cease to shake my defiance.
Gravels cave, underfires exposed.
But even then I'll swim, in your ocean of shallowness, tigers on my tail,
Paradise Mirages mocking my waterless skin, even then, I said, I will swim to the Revolution's Shore.

Nevermind your ignorance, seeing blue skies and arguing them RED.
Deluded certainty, swearing on a man's soul to prove your point and feed your obsession.
I say "yes", you say "of course",
but no doubt I'm in the wrong.
I say "maybe" you say "perhaps,
and so you've proved your wisdom blind.

Mastered conspiracies, you've convinced your lies true.
In your mind you walk on water, as you strike your soles on mere tar.
Governor's Confetti lay dead on Governor's Ground;
fool's bravery in act, leading souldiers from behind.

This world,
The Principal's Playroom: clay towers and cars, play moneys and guards.
In the sun, your tin castles smile and glimmer in the shine.
But inside, hollowness reigns and you fail to see.
Eyes and Eyes fall to your sleep,
calamity by the masses as you care not to care.

Seconds linger as misted windshields shield the drunk driver,
and not even the death he brings can break the glass.
Deaf man with hearing ears,
the blind one who can see.

Last night I went on journey, to
Africa, tomorrow's freedom.

A native to the richest soil, to the deepest roots.
I was unbound, at midnight, when
Spirits roam free.
It was beautiful.
Foot for foot, I strode into the Her growth.
Vessels howled and cried to the moon, trees danced and swayed to Her song.
I looked up, my sight destined for the horizon, and I saw.
I saw the mountain, souldiers firmly tied to their land, but they were reaching for the night sky, to the African Praise Song.
What Africa showed me, is far beyond any sensual comprehension. It was spiritual metamorphosis, The awakening.
I heard the valley's river, gently rolling and crashing and singing along.
Freedom, pure freedom.
Like a new born's first cry, like my first breath; and from it, I was birthed.
Her glow was effortless, showing light, before my young wide eye, to Her land.

Last night I went on a journey, to Africa,
Tomorrow's glory.

Drums roared loud into the eve,
Entranced, were Her people, as they danced to the fire's light.
Proud to have risen from the same soil that Her kings and queens fought tirelessly for.
Our Kings and Queens.
Forever we are the Kings and Queens of Africa, for their courage and royal beauty runs deep in our veins.
Yes, Kings and Queens.
Her Highness ruled from the earliest days, when Haile, The Ethiopian, conquered the lion.
And Her Highness shall rule after the last trumpet calls.
Africa, Blood Fayah.

Last night I went on a journey, to Africa,
Tomorrow's sunrise.