Exchange in greed the ungraceful signs.
Exchange in greed the ungraceful signs.
I sit counting syllables like Midas gold.
I boil my tears in a twisted spoon; And dance like an angel on the point of a needle.
Well, hell, lil sis, wasps still sting.
To write a blues songis to regiment riotsand pluck gems from graves.
In the beginning was the word, And in the end the deed. Judas did it to Jesus; Tor the same Herd. Same Reason. You made them mad, Malcolm, Same reason.
Each Fall the graves of my grandfathers call me, the brown hills and red gullies of Mississippi send out their electric messages, galvanizing my genes.
Another weaver of black dreams has gone.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories