"futility at times. my attempts to predicate care with rhyme. i'm simply a painter with the hidden colors of an ancient crime. the ticking thumbs of a heartbeat forced to clock wise elocution in the absence of hide. we are all born of skin yet i bear metaphors full of expressions only compelled to exert spite. these, however, are presentations of the love of my life. a Woman whose listening skills are envied by those who are keen to hear what the heart finds rife. love. love absent strife. love in the presence of hate's desire to blur sides. love overflowing in my sentences which i fill with the articulation of Her stride. footsteps along a vine. the veins to my heart transporting Her wealth from a tree to my spine. arteries drumming the art within me when i write. earth's scribe. She remains the guide. sturdy while reaching into my being of turbulent forces streamlined with pride. Her course lays inside. navigating every channel ferrying the instruments of scales to measure how even i reside. my paths abide. translations of the direction fish take to come to one conclusion on using a tree's bark as reprise. rings in a trunk bearing galaxies of drought that dictate the distance water-bound animals cover while on a blind hike. the eyes of a dark universe in need of sight. tentacles; pine. Her baobab as dykes. balanced in water retention with a brood of branches sweeping the atmosphere after everyone dines. carbon. die. entire digestive systems revealed while they exhaust all of their finds. lazarus' the last to bite. first to taste the emotive nature in all that sigh. every breath beginning with dirt's compilation into a lye. acidic fruit meets my base of desire colloquially called pieces of dime. bitter truths telling how hate is easily quelled through going past seven dwarfs to find Her living dye."
mitishamba ~ these are steady codes of my construct.