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KAERA
music layered 3fold in my 3rd eye
sometimes blind but always trying.
cement floor vibrating
with bass scratching mics attacking treble blending kick lending under
voices stalking voices poplocking voices flocking
to the testimonials laid down on wax
relaxed witnesses of the passing apocalypse.
i float in serenity
around me, righteous energy,
as people cipher and decipher their lives.
filled with existence,
resistance and above all
continuance.
revival in progress,
regress to the days of down by the river on muddy shores,
the hot sun lures dark children dressed in white,
slaves in a cotton field about to take to flight
on ebony wings,
singing those old negro spirituals
infused with defiance,
massas think docile compliance
but let me people go to the promised land
was a justifiable plan.
cryptic hieroglyphics,
lyrical insistence of self,
speak the forgotten dialect of dark tribes,
communal lives in circular precision,
scarification incisions mark faces and minds.
given shiny beads and guns
for the holes left by daughters and sons.
moons pull the path of destruction overhead.
marching in chains
snapping in time to the silence
laid down over insane screams.
meditate on stolen years that mark the new world limitations
and humiliations.
contemplations concerning the brand of the beast
cease to be necessary when mentality throws away sanity to cerebral slavery,
when our essence is sucked out
like remnants of a tattered soul,
worn down, daily middle passages to the fields take their toll,.
but on the back of a continent
resurrection was sent
and heavy tongues, filtered through scarred lungs,
weave sacred mosaics,
while brothas so black they eyes look red as blood
nod their heads,
feeling the rhythm calling them back,
telling them to roam,
calling them by their name "home,"
cause they carry home
in their mouths like stones from almost forgotten native earth.
they form a circle with a thousand pebbles
which reverberate with bass,
skipping across cement floors as souls implore,
and in the center,
we lay the mic in the cradle of our artificial womb,
circling it like serpents,
like lost children,
like sojourners looking for something for mecca
so we can repent the sins of our sons and the wisdom of our elders
which came too late
to annihilate the fate which was drawn for us
to us
but consciousness is drawn on sidewalks with chalk every day,
self-proclaiming desperate messages
scrawled on urban walls
imprint dissent
and speak the truth
we will rise
we will fall
we will fly on ebony wings in lyrically setting skies
- Walidah Imarisha