This piece is a rarity written by me because it’s untitled right now. I’m going to be tweaking it a bit and rewording some of the lines to add more depth. It is a rough version of what it will be but I still wanted to share it.
You want to put a spell on me
Like your name is Nina or you
Can conjure the blues greats
But I’m immune
My people talk the fire out of burns,
and see dead people.
There is no magic you can weave
to break generations
to rip the ties that bind
Sarah and Lymon’s
blood coursing through these veins.
My people wove dreams from land
ripe with cotton, scuppernong vines and sweet potatoes.
They poured sweat into the future
and brought forth
their own brand of magic.