Portrait of Self

I am sound and fury,

signifying

everything;

strurm und drang,

wrapped in black skin;

I am

what a sinner looks like,

broken by grace;

the son,

my father never had;

the apotheosis

of blues incarnate

and undiluted jazz.

I am

the love-infused truth

of Baldwin;

I am,

Nina Simone

in a man’s body;

you read my words because

you can handle the truth.

I am

the city of broad shoulders,

and all its Bronzeville residents,

distilled to represent

light and shadow,

beauty and pain;

my name

is verisimilitude;

my name

is on the lips,

unspoken

by the one

who preached

the Sermon on the Mount.

I am

not what you think I am,

but I am,

what you need me to be;

touching you

to the very core of your soul;

I am

the moral of the story;

I am

the riddle,

wrapped in a mystery,

inside an enigma,

yearning to breathe free;

what love

looks like in public

and

in private;

your favorite myths,

if they were all true;

your wildest fantasies

that you need never feel guilty of;

the spark

that lit the candle of liberty;

the stream of consciousness

you want to keep rolling along.

I am

the dark knight;

the dark passenger;

the very dark itself,

penetrated by light,

as only light can penetrate.

I am

the very last line

of a never-ending poem…

to be continued.

© Joseph Powell