The unshackling: Light and Freedom

They hear it...
Some of them.
The earthquake.
Erupting into the curl of their ears..
Someone sheds a mask.

The smoke lifting a drugged eye,
As it unfurls like scrolls of papered music,
From the Indian Drum.
A Black man,
with the night in him,
Transcends into the light.

Fingers grope. Searching.
Glass bowls with fireflies in them..
The scattering of wings,
Wings on rainy light.
Light echoes. Not sound.

Walking in braided fog,
The mighty tremble beneath those
of Lilliput.
It hangs on them,
the cross of the Albatross,
Except they ARE the Albatross.
Dead or undead...

But what does one make of the silence,
When silence makes one undead?

They run now. Towards the loud.
The fear of understanding.
Clamour squeezes itself
into a baby's blanket
blue, and sweetly swollen,
strangling.
Their death is the creation
of slavery.

The black man rises.
Chiselling wings from smoke and music.
Glass bowls break into bits of light,
Fireflies. And a purpose.
The unshackling of flight.
As the circle of supple ivory, the moon,
Stands like Isis and Ishtar,
Arms fostering a holier light,
drifting into a trance, it shifts and
the sun, hidden at first,
rises out of the water.
Awakening.

Glistening.Wet.Centennial. Divine.

And the fireflies melt into the source
that echoes their light,
In an embrace
of fullfillment.
Wild joy.
Freedom.
Bits of stars erupting.
Music and the creation.

Their tears make
winds wet.
It rains.