Pishone James

I, tree in Manaus
standing tall and proud
coiled in the mist
the mist, heavy and deep
...

This is my art
My sliver tongue finding its way to paper
Taking its reader by the hand and past the horizon
To pastures new and taboo
...

As fragile as glass
I realised that was what I was
as I held the Old Fashioned glass
clear and bright, almost see through
...

Forever forever
Seems long till you grow up
By then it is boring
At first alluring
...

Lush evergreen forests abound
near the Emerald City
I see with the scope and power of God's eye
On the Great Wheel
...

when two cultures collide
under the veil of misunderstanding
grown men turn juvenile
schism born of intolerance
...