Poets are umbilical cords—
chosen links of the pregnant mind
and its births—amniotic guardians
of the poetic descendent.
As mere servants of the word,
we cannot be more of an apostle
than that of: Humble.
Let us who write, worthily walk
in our own integrity;
man judges—The Most High chooses.
We’ve been blessed with the creativity
of the griots and muses of our own reality.
No longer must we let ourselves be led astray;
rather, let us forever write truth each blessed day.
When the keyboard, cobwebbed in silence,
ceases to ink, let not stillness miscarriage the word;
and may our creativity become like Lazarus.