Death wins nothing here,
gnawing wings that amputate––
then spread, lift up, fly.

It becomes more and more difficult to avoid the idea of black men as subjects of not just racial profiling but of an insidious form of racial obliteration sanctioned by silence.

History dressed up in the glow of love’s kiss turned grief into beauty.

Even when muddy your wings sparkle bright wonders that heal broken worlds.

Feet sandaled with dreams tread paths of vision leading to wisdom’s sharp peaks.

This is what our love is––a sacred pattern of unbroken unity sewn flawlessly invisible inside all other images, thoughts, smells, and sounds.