Black Woman

Her Glory in locks of pallid mud

Chains and a burden.

Chains and a burden.


Skin reflective of the blood of the nations

dark and rancid.

Forever blue

But only a hue.


Useless mounds of flesh

Surely, this creature should be put to rest.


Oh her chest

Wasted fertility.

Deprivation and misuse.

The Women had suffered at the hands of the habitual Jim Crows, cried out in intimacy.

They were recognised.


Back hunched and broken

“Was this the taste of iniquity,

that brought this upon me?”


Her receptors have no use.

She is not among the creators.


Dark talons take their place

The attainment of beauty is futile


My death grey and drowning blue

Crown her.


She is the Queen of Black

Made from the Earth.

Just beneath you.


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