wounded warrior, still surfing


and for years you wore pain in the pit of this belly, burned fire when the world engulfed you in smoke, and begged for mercy from passing birds who may be the only ones to know the weight of your true body
a weight that was unseen
except for in the shadow of an aching dawn
long forgotten
and undetected

it is now that we are surrounded
finding lonelihood in (de)vices;
in other vices we deny
to pretend we are prophets
whose names were jumbled into

my father says pray “Allah”
but I decided
to scream satan through the night

if I sing less
i may fade with the passing son

Ima Diawara, 2023
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