Dream Deferred By Langston Hughes
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.Or does it explode?
Black Glove by Lyn CrainOne single black glove left on the porch is all that is left a union of two.
The vivid, intense orange torch in their marriage flickered, now a black hue.
Angry words tossed into the flame, smothered immense passion.
Apologies spoken only sound lame, made the fire cold and ashen.
Violently shrugging away a touch, fighting a compulsion to flee.
Even a glance in his eye is too much. I must, Yes, I will be free.