His dialect, a legacy fraught,
Of poets mad, in chaos caught.
Born of blood, from newborn’s birth, Under wedlock’s absence, a curse on Earth.

Counterclockwise, their deeds unholy,
Quiet neighborhoods, on rampages trolly.
Mercy fled, their hatred reigns,
Irrevocable, in twisted veins.

Once blood, of Pacific’s waters,
Carried love, like ocean’s daughters. Yet,
from compassion’s grace, a light, His
words took flight, in freedom’s might.

A language forged, in strength and hope,
His dialect, a lighthouse, helped him cope.
No longer bound, by poets’ troubled past,
He finds his voice, his truth at last.

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Sydney Blair is a women in my mid-twenties, trying to find her way through life. She has no idea what she is supposed to do, but writing has always helped.