Lo, I lay stripped, half naked,
Chest hairs singed by the morning picture
The torn linen of reality grating against broken dreams
In the night we had risen like phoenixes
From the ashes of St John and Andrew’s ventures
Ebony pain glistening in the moonlight
Vengeance exposed by the glistening shards called our eyes
For come the sun, melanin should rule supreme
The aftermath finds me in the half nude,
My privates barely covered by a torn fabric
Sewn with misshapen threads of logic
Our attempt doomed perhaps by it’s birth in color?
And I wonder, should all have whitewashed before battle?
Or should not the fight have been with the self?