East of Eden

High in The Canopy,

climbed vines of struggle I reprieve.

I keep my sights on all

I choose to believe.

Shackles of centuries,

Like weights, I heave,

No more.

I fly on, and relinquish my hand

in a waltz of smoke and mirrors,

a pursuit of prosperity,

if at all it resembles the American dream.

Underneath my wings,

our spirit breathes

culture, and jubilee.

Seeds of our fathers

that bloom from the tears of our mothers ,

is where our hopes are redeemed.

Over generations,

wildfires smolder within our hearts

our boldest and brightest dreams,

that shoulders us high above

systematic and colonial reach

that has shaken every branch

of our family tree.

I am relieved,

because still we remain

from oppression, we regain

our footing in the deepest roots

that wander abyssal plains,

and send out transatlantic shoots

sharper than the most gruesome brambles,

and jewels of the Nile that they loot,

strong as the mark of Cain,

Our legacy bears the sweetest fruit.

Celestial winds churn high above,

As a guide of our ancestor's great applause,

The ground trembles from the voices of them all

As I follow the rhythm, and sacred heart beat,

Our flight path parts and crosses

the most tempestuous seas,

As we soar the horizon that bleeds,

East of Eden, yet still I am free.