I am the revolutionist

I am the revolutionist

I am the silence of night that wakes your ears to my rhythm, a whisper, propagation -  reminiscent of what’s given

I am the thread in a tapestry woven purely of intention, a creation, a man set on sickle-celled ascension.

From my lips thus speak the words that construct a demise, to realize one plan to actualize

My proximity to the war is not as close as the fray,  as I sit , I pray, unmoved by the lay – …believers set a tone in the song I cant sing, so high above reason it’s still the one thing, the one true word knowledge can not consume, setting fire to the wall while building the room

Bullets and bread loafs, bodies and Beemer’s, ducking past the masses of the faithful and their fluid in-betweeners

In conscious apologies, you’ll raise never more, the pitted half pruned figure of the dead boy next door.

Truly, how cruelly did my heart pluck strings asunder, echoing such stentorian versus that they flavored of thunder

All to soon a time for testing, for the besting of rhyme, within objections of resting in the chorus of lines

Drip, crush, rip a little, pulling tops from within the riddle, carving out best, which lays high, to bring the bottom to the middle.