Post by Odin Jones on Jul 31, 2007 13:56:51 GMT -5
Odin Jones walked the streets of New Orleans, the sun beating down on his dark skin, his dark suit, his dark sunglasses. He appeared out of place, yet at the same time none noticed him, nor the shadow growing behind.
My, oh my, oh my, Mista Mason, and how would you be? Sitting there in your quaint little room, wearing your hood, in the safety of the light. Ah, the light, yes, that is what you said, man of God, his soldier...warrior. Yes Mista Mason, i see you now ahead of the flock, wielding your noose, brandishing your cross.
And then there is me, Mista Jones.
These streets i have walked, over and over, even when my shoes they filled with water, i walked ever on. When winds tore at the houses, ripped them apart; on the day the children cried, even then i walked. And i looked up into those clouds, into the winds, and past them to the ocean that was trying to break down the walls and climb in...do you know what i seen...it was not God.
But for you to understand what it was I saw, you will have to take a journey with me to places you are not ready to go. Your mind is still young, still clinging to futile thoughts, imagery of some great being watching over you, edging you on as you tightening the rope around a niggas neck. He gives you an excuse, a way to wash your hands...
But you wash your hands in black waters whitey, Ah ha, and that is where i lurk. You see in New Orleans i have found that which makes me whole...and that being the sparkle in the eye as it drowns beneath water...
And that is what will come to be for you Mista Mason. As you push on, you will be yourself submerged...and victim, to the shadows underneath.
That is not dead...Mista Mason...not yet.
My, oh my, oh my, Mista Mason, and how would you be? Sitting there in your quaint little room, wearing your hood, in the safety of the light. Ah, the light, yes, that is what you said, man of God, his soldier...warrior. Yes Mista Mason, i see you now ahead of the flock, wielding your noose, brandishing your cross.
And then there is me, Mista Jones.
These streets i have walked, over and over, even when my shoes they filled with water, i walked ever on. When winds tore at the houses, ripped them apart; on the day the children cried, even then i walked. And i looked up into those clouds, into the winds, and past them to the ocean that was trying to break down the walls and climb in...do you know what i seen...it was not God.
But for you to understand what it was I saw, you will have to take a journey with me to places you are not ready to go. Your mind is still young, still clinging to futile thoughts, imagery of some great being watching over you, edging you on as you tightening the rope around a niggas neck. He gives you an excuse, a way to wash your hands...
But you wash your hands in black waters whitey, Ah ha, and that is where i lurk. You see in New Orleans i have found that which makes me whole...and that being the sparkle in the eye as it drowns beneath water...
And that is what will come to be for you Mista Mason. As you push on, you will be yourself submerged...and victim, to the shadows underneath.
That is not dead...Mista Mason...not yet.