Imagery

Imagery of Racism, by Poet Angela Khristin Brown Eyes wide shut, I can see the dead caucuses of ash and dust mites eating at my flesh. I have become the old tired drunk suicide. My bones aching and tired of reasons to move, to communicate, expand and move on. Images of decayed rusted and starving dreams die. I age with desire of being strong. Weak and tired, I am holding on. One eye shut, I can feel the voices peeling away my flesh, letting go, holding on, wanting to be loved. The voices stitch the seams of my soul, moving on from the dark to discover hope. The trumpets playing their musical ensemble, pa pa papaya pa pa, pa pa pa, pa pa, pa pa. Light pierce through the wounds of joy. Echoing sounds before my dreams. I’m not asleep yet.... We are within a storm facing a struggle over. I fail, I rise, I fall, I stand tall.