Ode To Brother Man

Where silence is golden like the sun on his back,
Brother man speaks to the mystic morning,
eyes to the sky, the last of sprinkling drew
drips on his face

He spread his arms wide like leaves on limbs,
roots deep in black soil fertilized for yam seeds
in the cycle of the moon orbiting in his soul,
his tired feet printed in the bitter fields of sugarcane

Brother man sits in his lion’s den,
the palace of tears where dreams deferred,
and the journey of his Dreadlocks lives a simple life
in the times of the masquerade

The turbulence in the color of his skin,
like the turbulence in the vein of life, he avoids.
It plays rhythmic sounds of a goat skin conga drum
in an imagined African village far removed from his ancestry

He listens without breathing.
He knew this day would come—
the day of reckoning; the day of his
exile from his homeland for being a righteous man.

Brother man lives by the length of his Dreadlocks!

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