There were Parchman Farms and now Parchman Pens,
and my face grows fat as I search within
for a means to progress despite the sense
I get when I push my mind into sin:
I was captivated by the lightness
of skin – not color, you perverts, but weight;
I mean, how could my skin frame my likeness
and only total the tithe of my fate?:
Is this where religion enters the fray?
Is darkness equal to the force of light?
Is vision a function of night or day,
or does it encase the flesh of what's right?:
I went to Nation to answer my doubts,
and came home with the Truth, smothered in shouts.