Fly Medium

I had a dream and I was grateful, I met a fly medium,
who vibrated higher than the Heavens God prays to,
She said I was a spirit seeking refuge,
In need of these moments that are joyous,
and most honest, they boast orange,
She told me if I had it, dip my paint brush bristles,
and drizzle red on my palette,
Then channel the desires that are mine, like the '49 gold,
inner-most, into soul syncopated syllables,
Pen a song while you’re seated out in nature, embrace her,
Gaia, and Nyame, Mitochondrial Eve as you weave,
Storytelling of oppressed, genocide, gentrified,
By a patriarchal American Enterprise,
Over-stand and unearth her, Green verdure,
takes the merger, of mind, body and soul further,
yellow sun light make the drums tight,
that’s what she whispered in a hoarse tone,
gripping Quartz stone,
She said my blues too 'navy', she understood the root,
but rebuked me to balance it with ‘baby’,
blended with the very same passion of my palette color red,
makes me royalty, but only of that palace in my head,
She said "Power to the People" means liberating minds,
The consciousness of tools that dissect all of our lives,
You see freedom isn’t freedom for the few, but the spectrum,
of genders, sexualities, and hues, in connection,
America was branded on the Black Woman’s black,
one hand up her dress, one Bible in her lap,
Its deceptive, they call her Radical,
I call her magical, perceptive,
seated at her feet, as she lectures,
she told me poetry is more than text, it’s Texture,
so even when equating Her to the Art,
over-stand that her Black back’s arch is as Hers as her Heart,
and a part of her stark architecture,
I paused for a moment, aware that I’m dreaming now, lucidly,
Praying when I wake, or when I create musically,
I can use red, orange yellow, purple, green,
as blues, in White America, as Black people scream,
I woke grateful, I met a fly medium,
who vibrated higher than the Heaven God prays to,
Stevie's vibes woke me,
my wide open eyes, feeling heavenly,
My Lady's eyes opened as she smiled to the melody,
Of Songs in the Key, feeling colorful and free,
While she took a breath, and pulled herself closer to me,
I recollected my dream, inspiring as it seemed,
with her fist on my chest, she subtly intervened, saying
freedom isn’t freedom for the few, but the spectrum,
of genders, sexualities, and hues, in connection,
Kissed me on the cheek, and whispered if I wanted tea,
in a hoarse tone, while gripping a Quartz stone,
I met a Fly Medium..
I met a Fly Medium...

I woke up by a Fly Medium.