by Stefon Napier01 Sep 2014
Among these idle days
And short hushed breaths
I reside, plainly as it were, in the depths
Of a dark fever conscious.
Yet from the beginning of those depths plunged
Comes a whisper long fermented and thick.
Rich wisdom adorned upon a warm tapestry hugged by sweet centuries.
To the east, a swell rises from a tiny land,
for in spirit that which can be broken can be built again
but the idols lay dead forever.
Am I not called by Abraham?