Our vision and fire are not aloof but kin.
Used rain drops caressed your Ebony and beautiful African skin,
ink that allows [for] us to enjoy sin
Since the world is blind and mean
Gentle Soul: words call you loving and Yin,
Poetry is well, something it has never been.
You are its Muse, heart, and spleen.
Amused, foolish fears cursed their fins…
While obnoxious doubts drowned akin.
Our passion will prosper as we continously win.
Raining sentiments ought to come out, take them in.