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.
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