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Once again, the warmth of sunshine
showered my face—awakening me
with praises—the inkwell of mind
overflowing in musing contemplation.
Flaming metaphors, venomous similes
and stinging verses seek to inoculate
the womb of the fertile mind
against the infectious lies of deceit—
pandemic-abracadabra affects—aping
the emptiness of the scales of justice
and the smoking guns of scarred greatness.
Shakespearean tragedies are a thing of the past;
there is no question that we must be Mandingo men
of whom Othello is a torch memory—igniting burning
spears of our seasonal realities—shaping the fall of
winter’s once-upon a time discontentment; ushering
in the spring of our new beginnings.
