I call it odd art, the feast of the modern gods of poetry, my true joy and the burst of my infant passion
It is a forever inspiring vision that swifts between my dreams forgotten and my black history within
Perhaps it is these dark thoughts confined between these spaces of odd sort
Or a thought provoked within a shallow version of divinity, a gift moved upon the space abort
It is words embedded in this natural world; swirled, bound and curled…
Curled by this odd art hidden beneath the black skin and lines forbidden to the sight which the angels curved!
It forever dwells within my black soul and white voids with no singularities…
White words and black art with no native differences
It is the pouring of the black hands and the heart of the poetry in disperse
Simple things we won’t find in this odd art of black masters and finite universe
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