It is a bitch no break
A purple mysterious bitch
to make a poem in this Library
The ghosts of poets escape book covers
And hover over my shoulder
And snitch to the god of the dead.
Their words are not much read here.
Their memories rust in the mold.
I am alone and cold.
Besides, I am covered with the cloak of Jah
All the gods I follow are women
And they are all living gods
When I seek just one
I look into the eyes of my mother
Or the eyes of my lover.