Hairs like vine that spiral and twine
And loop and wick the fevered grove,
There is no raining sweep nor brine,
To make this grated wood align,
There is only to let be the rise of overgrowth;
Darkest wood that grow without ingredient
Know not where it’s roots burrow
No shear could make a dint
The curly grove would only split
It’s hairs parting with stubborn wit
Make the deforestors thinning furlough;
The Afro has a will of its own
And it is not I, that can disown
And shape and cloak the tousled wilds
That on my soil pallor pate is grown;
It can be simply said that it is not my Afro’s style
To be styled and brushed and flushed and waxed
For it will only journey back
To grove of withstanding, of natural black
And all the while, never succumb to deforested wile
About the Creator
Octovo Libra
Instagram: @libracymbaspoems
Twitter : @libracymbalspoems
And my poetry Hell Is Like A Dog Kennel and other poems
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