In a world gushing blood day and night, you never stop mopping up pain.

The birth of a true poet is neither an insignificant event nor an easy delivery. Complications generally begin long before the fated soul carries its dubious light into whatever womb has been kind enough to volunteer the intricate machinery of its blood and prayers and muscles for a gestation period much longer than nine months or even nine years.

On faith’s battered back calm eyes etch prayers that cool a nation’s hot rage.

Time (again, Time) like the soul, wears many faces, many bodies and climates and attitudes. The past is one face, the present a second and the future yet another.

The same hot lightning that burns your blood with passion–– cools your fears with peace.

Hearts rebuilt from hope resurrect dreams killed by hate.