When Candles Die in our hands

 

The way that candles die in our hands like a rose for Emily planted on a famished road puncture all promises that the sun will rise again. & like crimson in the skies, the hidden star that we seek to see turns dimmer than a half of a yellow sun. here we are; meshed in punctured histories, jagged lacerations & a wonder-world nostalgia; as though in hundred years of solitude. there was a country where three brothers promised every good thing will come, before it all turned a play of giants & women buried starved children bones under hungry grasses - painting head-stones in petals of blood.... and you ask, if it's all because the beautiful ones are not yet born in 6decades or we lost the womb of all prophecy to the african saga.... Wait! up nepa! Grandpa once prophesied with the eye of the earth, singing an antithesis of few white things that happened to our black horizons & our world would never remain the same until our flesh & bloods are black no more, like the labyrinth between prose, play and poetry titled in quotidian poverty, pandemic quarantine & coordinated protests pummeled in pogroms. But this last chapter is a walk to freedom covered in red.

the outlets…

pens & papers punctuating carefully,;-:…. ‘midst papered bodies – tears washing wounds of wobbling words aware of a wuthering world.:-?? When our sons find these diaries, they would be glad that semens ceased awhile in these times, so they may be born under the latter rain…

night…

gory night…

Good Night Heroes...

night...

…came and would not wait – shattered & left us with blood-blocked retinas…sleep is the last hand-wave of a bullet-butchered beloved bleeding their last with fists clenched up under

peace & unity…