Poetic Tears

It was poetic,

her tears washing my t-shirt,

and rinsing her sorrows

in the follicles of the cotton,

picking black girl,


some don’t know

that when she cries today

on my open chest,

her tears are gazing at Ivory,

and her mind is on bittertart and sour


reminiscent of the dark reaper

taking her mother

while she was so young


to the glistening gates

of heaven.


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