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Cataclysmic waves in my palms
Control their postures
Like surfing the brailles of nervousness
That push mishandled brainstorms
Through the maps of my hands
Secular psalms grew from languages
Indoctrinated in the true pallet of my tastebuds
As if these poems are a taste of ancestral culture
Like soul foods
Like coded greetings
Like the seasoned flavors in the way we talk
The way we move
The way we exist
Vibrant eye easels hold refuge in my consciousness
Like stained glass windows...
