“Myth,” A Compilation


What force of nature can oppose a dream,
with feudalism vanquished by a King?
When part of me is part of “the regime,”
but all of me can echo freedom’s ring,
where can I stand? why can’t I sit? up front
I’m brave, but, still, I disappear
within the gray of Black and White: the brunt
of Gray Man’s Burden, borne by two-faced fear.

I’d stand with rap, with house, divided by
this “why did I…?”, yet I denied that who
I am is who we were; Now Let Me Fly,
I’ll Fly Away, like dark-skinned angels flew.
I’d stand, forgive, if planned to live; alive,
I aim where brothers shot: at twenty-five.



For passion, only borrowed, never owned,
I lust, an autobiographical,
alchemically romantic, tragic tale
of burn-outs, blazed: a philosopher stoned.

A glimpse of cinders in their eyes, a gleam
that hints of hearts, as hearths, ablaze; aflame,
with unattainable desire, the same
desire I’ve seen but once upon a dream.

As water flows downhill, so does despair;
it seeks some sense of ease in passing by,
its fuel consumed. Success assumed, I try
to bloom; my best is born upon a prayer.

But failure reigns when flaws, ambitions clash;
I beg to burn again from blighted ash.




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