Member-only story
a voice of one called in the wilderness
Jan 19, 2021
Babies buyoed by boutiful in baskets down
the bloated bodies of Babylon’s waters like striding bambies,
while wailing fathers wandered waywardly for fourteen further generations.
Born to die, still souls at birth
are heaping hopes of a home are returned
to the renderer, the wretched wrecked and ruined.
At about 3 in the afternoon when the sun
was an only son’s sad face,
vinegar broke out like a spring from the widening wound at will.
Unspeakable pains signaling salvation of some,
or something sacrificial like that for the chosen one.
At the core of us, our outter vibrations did not meet our inner frequencies.
| a poem by nublaccsoul x new-black-soul (2020)
