Mother Africa

I can't find her feet
on the face of this world,
Although they say she's vast
and singular too
Her bosom was bartered,
split and scattered
by groping white hands,
and now she's indifferent
deferred and sworn
to a montage of spaces,
like arrows of the African storm

Split faces

If I ever see my eyes again,
I will lean and look beneath their gaze,
Beyond that hollow guiltless façade--
the flaunted gap between knowledge
and the illusion of it;
I suspect I will cringe or pose unnerved, 
juxtaposed with reason and sense
But, how else will I know for sure,
when my mirror has, not one,
but many faces?

Secrets of the soul

There's a little room
in the corner of my circle,
where I am content not
to let you in, which
I wrap in my frail fingers,
of broken promises
and false hopes,
that thorns be sweet
like a thousand lilies struck
by the lips of a celestial viper,
and the sightly views
of a ghostly dream
in stormy night.

Sojourners

I am partial, unfinished
a figment of limited imagination,
always a wanting, never whole
this knowing nudges, draws me out
I lodge in their stories, beyond
the space between now and then
They are sojourners too, and
we're more than ourselves, always
something more, never whole.

Circle of yore

I'm lain in want,
emptied, flustered;
Craving for a piece of myself
Invisible hands of time
tug at me,
I lose myself again,
in the hollow circle of yore.

Lost

I think I am lost. I mean,
my name is lost
Oh the pains, to know how,
not knowing hurts.
Was I ever called anything,
anyway?