Tornado

He is on the path of destruction.
He violently twists and turns.
The overcast is dark and dreary.
He crushes everything on contact.
He does not choose to be a tornado,
He is created.
Formed by the chaos of society.
Fueled by the electric surges of negative energy.
See, the storms of life give him life.
His vortex spirals in the confusion of being,
Wanting to just be,
But can’t fight the impulse to tear down stability.
He crushes every love bearing tree.
If given two paths,
One of nothing but peace and meadows or one of rampant havoc and widespread mayhem,
He would choose the latter.
Not consciously, but by habit.
The turmoil inside of his funnel
Gravitates to all that feels familiar.
The cold downdraft of circumstances builds up this strong natural phenonenon,
But if he would just allow the heat of love to steer him in the direction of peace and meadows,
The twister would cease to exist and return to its natural state of being.
Pure air.
Calm seas.
Bright skies.
With tall fruit bearing trees.
Not a cloud in sight just a subtle refreshing breeze.
No calamity,
But the ability to just be.
See, the black man is a beautiful natural phenomenon.
If he just opened up,
Love could teach him how to breath.
Black men don’t choose to be tornados.
Society created that breed.
You are Kings!
©August 2018

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