Norman [The PenPusher]
She neither witnessed the moon
Nor a glimpse of the morning rays
Cutting across the dark visible horizon,
Even shadows of dawn by her doorsteps,
She never witnessed her moth-eaten skin
Or fresh wounds in those black moonless Nights
Only she felt, was blood, tears, and pain
Making paths of flagitious streams
Which left the black race in deluge.
She was born in tantalising pain
With mother lying on bare earth,
Her skin ripped
As she struggled to push a race
Out of her dark womb to the dark world
Of immortal grief
And father waited restlessly in ragged Thoughts,
Watching his dream Intemperately falling On setaceous hard earth,
Where decayed black cadavers continued To rot underneath.
In the wounds of this flooded war
She battled until she stood on her fragile
Clay feet
Fleaing in her untamed wounds,
Along the tortuous courses,
In the sweltry heat and mordacious cold
She nursed the baby with haste from the
Withering teat
As she watched over like the mongoose,
He, trailed behind manned with stick and Stone
To cushion mother from the indiscernible, Dreaded gunslinger; foe
Whose strength lay on still artilleries to Wipe away the black domain and its Mankind!
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