I Am Not Your Negro.
The Fire Next Time.
Books, read. Film, seen.
Waiting to be journeyed through again and again and again.
Proverbial fabric weaves a tapestry of truth.
Each word teaching a new lesson.
An endless trail of thought…
trickling into a lake of wonder, anger, hunger and realisation.
Bleeding into a sea of timeless ignorance –
so often, drowning out these humble droplets of hope,
as if they only live to quench hypernormalisation.
a pensive and patient dragon who has hovered over the blue since 1924,
drags in a puff of smoke,
places an index finger on his temple,
and the tide changes.
Not a loud tsunami, but a quiet storm,
softly and eloquently spoken,
contemplates the climate and shakes the weather.
And all the drowned out droplets make their way to the clouds.
They too hover over the sea.
Waiting to rain.