We Were Not Made To Eternally Weep.

The Night Whose Sable Breast Relieves The Stark, White Stars, Is No Less Lovely Being Dark

Quaint, Outlandish Heathen Gods Black Men Fashion Out Of Rods

Whatever Lives Is Granted Breath But By The Grace And Sufferance Of Death.

Ever At Thy Glowing Altar Must My Heart Grow Sick And Falter, Wishing He I Served Were Black.

My Poetry Has Become The Way Of My Giving Out What Music Is Within Me.