Here is a quick poem I wrote just a few minutes ago:

What is it to be the pride of the world?

The idea is beyond me because I belong to a dead race.

Like children without parents do we walk an unguided path of destitution and filth.

We have no names. We have no God. We have no land. We have no power.

Who will save the hanged man as his feet dangle to find solid ground?

Death is perhaps a the sweetest thing as it is gifted to those of us bearing the curse of Cain; the blackness of the soul visible upon the skin.

To what purpose do we pray? Be it the same salvation which took the head of Cyprian? Perhaps it is the same salvation which kept Sebastian as he floated alongside the feces of the Caesars.

As Clement strained to see the sun from the sea, the blurred vision of hope filled his lungs with martyrdom.

How can God save the godless from a curse which He mandated from the throne of plenty?

Take thy hand lest you be clubbed and the knowledge of God be forgotten.

Sedrie Danielle