the few; the proud; the emotional

he is not an accident. he is the antithesis of ruination– a creation so greatly masked under layers of fault, lines caught between his ribs and between his thighs from his lips melodies are writ, a harsh example of a kingdom split in two rebuilt to honor those who came before him a testament to challenge and acceptance he is great his name a thunder-clap surrounded by rain. a planned pardon of years spent wandering deserts, stealing water where it falls. a false advertisement of calm, and what comes after? a healing; a knowledge of too much to swallow a realization that the past isn’t tomorrow the sun’s the same but today’s rays know no sorrow he opens his eyes and creates a line, a new thought. he un-binds his soul, a bated breath waiting to be let go I am not a mirror’s image. I am a crease between two folds a God worshipped in secret the antithesis of a reaction, a cause for a change, for a trans– formation in better words a tradition of broken promises. but I am a breath released, a shame worth having a home worth living in