Unfinished

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...