You have seen him,
in places where art wears a mask; and masquerades as the truth.
You have heard his voice on high notes:
a loose tongue in his pocket,
masquerading as change.
You have met him in the orbits of your dreams-
him in sagged jeans,
him in clenched teeth,
him spinning the globe with his middle finger.
You have bobbed your nappy head to his rhymes on beats:
“Shout out to my Gs finding the truth in they sing-songs/
Still bars you can hold on to in your mental prisons/”
You have deciphered his metaphors in open mic stages:
“We carry the essence of death in our tongue,
So I speak the language of broken bottles in street hallways,
Postponed mortality in ‘Always’ lunar stains of a woman in moon cycles,
I hum as a prayer of a kid waiting home for dad to bring bread and all he got was a political song
(of the economy in premature menopause)”.
You have probably boned his former women:
scared of being alone
she dogs every man on her phone
love is for the birds, dog
they all wanna bone
You have drunk with him.
You recall the slur in his verbs as a sound of despair,
so he knew the curse of his generation lay on his young shoulders.
What happens when a dream pulls a trigger,
and all you have is an abstract canvas of brain spurts?
So one day he found love in the dimples of his best friend.
in his journal he wrote:
“when we touches each other’s me,
when we loves us, as imperfect as we can be,
as deep we be:
jazz and poetry”.
At the end of August, he bought new shoes
and he wanted to walk, travel farther
to show off his newly found path.
But all his friends were either high on pot
or discussing the day’s soccer scores and poll-tricks.
And Jane too had left.
A child on her back.
So he took a journey to his-self,
to a place where candles bleed, mourning
the death of light.
Mapping a road to infinity,
looping time like a Stevie Wonder sample on a Hiphop hook.
He let the heart be like water:
divine oscillations: every breath is a ripple to the quantum seas of the universe.
Thus, he found the death of time
in a book.