I search at the bottom of the box
for the colours that I want
to pen my way through these
days of bleak solitude.
While I push away with red
you home in with blue
lights flashing in your hair
like cops alone on an evening light
with spines of angels laughing
at the trauma of ideals
that makes us forget that
no one knows who is to blame for
the world that we ken and feel.
The colour yellow stops me talking
the green makes all yield before it
The black is an underline, an end to
the fable, an end to the note of
.our making good the realm of the man
and his king is here with the void
of the ray of light called tasm.
Africa haunts me like a sullen woman,
its breadth of making the music cry
does not allow one to find the rope to hold
onto for it is not the word of man
that gives us the pride of moments
but the word of the man inside us that makes
the rest of the kings men see that all the
writings on the walls of fame make the world
see no one is able to claim their place
without having a word or two about the way
that the right of man has been given a lift.
Graffitti is the way of sound like the youth
of the understanding of the age about
the right of the message to get through.
COPYRIGHT BRUCE E SAUNDERS com BRUCE P SAUNDERS com BRUCE CDF MORE com PRINCE BRUCED DU FAUX 2020