Poor woman, the Queen

I think I’m too proud to be persuaded
And almost too loud for aggravation
Yet so quiet my voice when all else has faded
And my eyes are on yours. You breathe life.

You breathe life

I’m ready for action
And steady in mind
Think of what words are now jaded
You’ve the upper hand
Quick in your movement
Soft with berating all my hidden conclusions
Crime falters such missions
Of reflective petitions
Epistles in masses I’m gone by the morn
Torn between loves, ideas that seem foreign
Wake me, oh Rays of beauty so bright
Lift my spine toward the pines
broken skies
Clouds…then light
Breaking clouds…breaking sights
The mother can’t feed her child this week
The frost on the panes and the fuzz whites mine cheek
I’m so sick
I’m so filthy and I have no escape
This longing’s not sated. I’m desperate to wake
And hear those birds chirping, flapping blue wings
Melding into my painting
A Father in chains
A Brother in pain
Yet the mother still sings
With sunken cheeks, flaxen face, ragged hair grips the scalp
She sings and she dances
Out loud she thanks God
His bountiful blessings on the streets are not lost
The son of his cost dripped down blood, red as love
Passion defines the word hate
Love is dry and yet wet
All the same
She sings and she dances
I envy her spirit. That wicked, small face is who God gives true purpose
Cause she shares the chalice in her mind and breaks the bread as time elapses. I envy her spirit