Wood

My foundation is of wood
- the thick, colonial type.

It screams hollow when I step on it
It shines smooth when I sweep it.

It reveals stains within its layers
Stains that rise like smudges of black blood.

Its foundation is a harvest of thorns
Its skin is painted with wrinkles of wasted years.

Its veins are as aligned as a famished choir
Singing disjointed choruses of oppression.

Yesterday I scrubbed it till it shone in the Sun
Then it exploded carrying me within its soft embrace.

Towards a new leap of faith
Towards freedom – O, sweet freedom.