by Paris Weslyn

My words are venom.

I spit from my mouth a terrible poison.

Sorrow and pain linger on my breath.

I want my tongue to be sweet like honey

Elderberry syrup dripping down my throat,

But my tongue is forked.

I hiss and send curses up into the heavens.

Ever warring, my words are bitter cold, a frost that burns.

Darkness settles over the landmurkiness unending

And I am afraid.

I am scared I may never find which tree to hang myself from

To rest under its branches

To pause and find that eternal bliss

To unlock the mysterof how to speak life, tenderly

and have it burst forth off the tip of my...

Let there be light,’ I whisper timidly.

Let there be light,’ I beg.

Paris Weslyn is the return of Spring, creeping forth to cast out the darkness of Winter. She is a Black woman refreshed, reborn, and blossoming, whose purpose is to respond to existence with awe and wonder.


March 2019

© 2020 by The Esthetic Apostle