Old whyte boys; young midnight blue men
How fast are they,
leaving flames and muddy puddles in their wake?
Moving backward whenever they please.
My tears are meaningless to the apathy of many.
We don’t belong, I heard many years today.
We will never see heaven nor hell.
Why would the Gods make us this way?
Why is it that the whytes get to play?
pretending to be one way and not the other?
And then it becomes true.
We pretend to get away, but it is never true, it never stays.
The only version of our history is suffering.
So they hide their shame in palm-colored bosoms.
The only triumph in the creation of mocha-colored seeds.
We shame our midnight counterparts.
Don’t we deserve the world?
Ain’t we the people who give all good things that the Gods have promised us? To strengthen us?
Rare is it that the midnight blue men comfort the midnight purple goddess. The waxing moon stares in awe at the beauty that is the midnight purple entity. To want to disappear in the womb of She. To be whole, be welcomed. Cheers to Midnight blue men and the old whyte boys:
the cooling purple and the burning midnight will no longer give comfort. The dark side will shine and will be the last gaze as you fall into the black.
