Written by: Asante Indira

This is it, the visceral
A mud laden intention for the perfect
And the prefect knows we don’t deserve it
but in morning yawning I’m yearning
To sheen without the glisten
To be of worth without the wealth
To matter in spite of mass

Come sing in the keys of dandelions
and roar like the hidden root
I prefer to blacken my estate
than to yellow at the petals,
fixing myself for your taste
Somewhere in the dirt 
Some hand clenching at the shine
of the only future it deserves
is cut off
Someone picking up my charms 
Somewhere, far away
So far that in knowing these truths, it doesn’t matter
It has no mass
These are not atoms
This is only shape