beads encircle the waist of mother earth,
each bead spells Africa
with a portrait of Tydale in between.

at times she could be so cutting,
wafting through a mangrove of men.

pray tell,
do you recall that pale,
flat-chested girl
who danced in the rain?

you called her a floating dream
but she became the lady muse of ebony,

sitting on a crescent

brighter than the blinding sunshine,
shimmering southwards with the power of a thousand stars,
yet comforting,
yet warm,

a glass of water,

tumultuous like the ocean,
sweeping shores with a powerful storm,
and sailing lost ships with comforting words,
yet still
yet calm,

like an hourglass,

filled with unending wonder and curiosity,
chiming silently to time's music,

yearning for the unknown,
and illumine enlightenment,
yet wise,
yet mystery,

a vase of flowery goddess

eyes so wide, so deep, filled with delicate roses,
the power of her petals, open and close
to conquer mighty warriors,
yet fragrance,
yet beau,

a muse of ebony,

elegant as mahogany stem,
filled with juices of melanin,
and passion, a safari of wit,
yet rare,
yet Tyndale.


(This is not a poem)

#Pengician #SSA

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