Here, the Gods roam freely.
Disguised as birds with scythes underneath their wings,
singing melodious provocations in their hymns.

In between the dew of leaves,
you were born
to be a rainstorm
and send your voice throughout the night.
But the world ran for cover when you opened up your skies
so you silenced your thunder and sent the world into darkness.
You were born to be the chaos that brought order
to show the beauty in knowledge and tragedy
but the birds have sliced at your tongue with their scythes
you were wronged

Here, the spirits walked the earth just like people.
They dwelled inside enormous rainforest full of cool, blue-green shade
so I seek refuge in my temple
and prayed for your storm to end
although my feet wanted to be soaked in your ceremonial rain.

As I dashed through the trees for my mother
I sense your crocodile eyes glowing in the dark
I hear you dancing the rumba, the merengue​, ​and the samba
I can smell your warm intoxicated breath on my skin as you snatch me into your orifice,
the kamasalila as fragrant as fresh lychees.
Life is tragic
So tragic, but always disfigured in fog and softly tuned guitar
So tragic, but obscured between soft, pleasurable thrusts and kisses on the earlobes

You pace your movements slower to feel the pulse of every second
lest you miss even a beat
you’ve given up the rainstorm
and you’ve refused to accept that your insides are pocketed with bites of the universe
it has made you despair more
as you pummel to the floor despite your mad attempts to climb
every incline anchors​ you even deeper
and now

I, pummel too.