This is is a song from a soul from a 'ghetto' searching,
not knowing for what but searching, believing there has to be something better than this.
These are the fingerprints from impoverished flesh,
as they scribble unseen riddles on schorched neglected pages.
Such is like my soul,
it feels blank, ravaged,
like dust fleeing the molested libraries of Alexandria.
This is a poem from a soul from a 'ghetto' writing, humming to unexisting tunes, tunes only made from the hunger pangs of the mind as starvation from truth creates beats and melodies of unconquered nothingness.
This imaginary crown of thorns kisses my forehead softly, so softly that drop by drop, humble blood travels as if romantically upon the land of my pores, in dual perfection.
Celibate thoughts have entangled my utopia in unforgiving tentacles.
What then shall be of my 'beyond the clouds' beliefs?
What then of my kissing the stars and crying tears as radiant as the midnight moon to be wiped away by fingers soft like heavens cheeks?
What then of this dry soul that knows no rain, one trapped between poisoned dreams and intriguing nightmares?
Grace, i watch you keenly, as you glide through the hallways of the wind.
Clad white, soul light, mind peace, a true souls soul.
My breath pauses, as sin itself is in the breathing of your air.
You see through the masquearade ball of my emotions, even when i hide myself behind the strings of the very mask i adorn.
Oh Grace, it is hard for the soul to stay warm when trapped in frozen flesh and this world hath cast its glacial rebuke.
Beleagured bodies and manacled minds scar succeptible souls suddenly, slowly seething scathing schemes, just to escape this labyrinth called life.
So we search, we search for our souls among the dust the wind declined to carry and among the burst raindrops that heaven declined to hold.
This is a poem from a soul, a soul that before today knew not how a true soul feels like.
