Sometimes passion tears my mind
and rain falls from my eyes,
and lightning arrows strike me blind
when red runs through my skies.
Human burning need
cuts through my voice
in strangled noise
and tells me now to bleed.

Instead of doing what it asks,
and screaming my child’s pain,
I wear my African hunting masks
and smile throughout the rain,
dripping into smears
I blend with reds
in wooden heads
with inward showing leers.

Alone I flow and the moon shifts
and falls back and returns on me.

If the returning waves can show
all my masks from start,
I wonder if I will ever know
in the oceans of my heart,
I wonder if I’ll see
in the tidal maze
what hidden face
is really, truly me.

– Pierce Angel