by KOFI ANTWI
at civil war
the house of morning,
an unholy sermon
affluent garbs
—men who prey,
blessed before mother’s
intuition, harnessed; as
evergreen sculpture,
the season shapes—
less storms,
harbored within—
what falters,
parting rivers, amongst
bickering brothers,
conflicted; as contrived
narratives – we succumb
depth of field
evening descends, a colorful graffiti
collage— emerge, revered by artists,
an invasion of space, in surreptitious
showers, by rivers they sang—
fragments of love &
light falls dim, shallow tears,
our island dissipated, weeping
streams quiver the body in absences –
we must act, as a tumbling
tide attest to who you are
peering amongst amber sunsets or
rise as our hearts fall victim
to who ware are not