Brain Circus

They produced the sound, we danced to the tunes. It was a whole circus as they stroked the strings on the kora till it hurt my senses.
Their thumb pressed against the wooden frame, a metaphore for my incarcerated will.
Papa became the hunted hunter as the deer tore out his rip.His corpse became nothing but bones and scarce flesh.
I hear the forest singing his dirge to my grieving soul.His blood flows through my brains. I now know nothing but gory, the walls of a white man’s confinement, a man in a cassock and needles for sleeplessness.


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