THE BEST SIDE OF EPOCH POETRY

Black is the colour of my tiny brother’s mind, the grey streaks in my mother’s hair. Black is the color of my yellow cousin’s smile, the scards on my neighbor’s wrinkled facial area…is a means of claiming the reality that hurts which has a snicker, a technique for capping on (shutting up) a person. Having even conversing bout folks’s ma

my eyes took your slender fingers & dreamed on them, they thinned imagination to your queen called sheba/nefertiti deeming you royalness/creating a fetish of the hand……we go to meet the realization of makers recognizing who we are …knowing how to live, and what lifetime is… …we have to spin by way of our seventh adventures within the endl