As she sits in deep prayer with her Lord.
Tears stream down her face.
It’s a look I’ve seen before.
So I stand wondering what pains she must bore, but I don’t implore.
I say to myself, just let her be and ignore, but I can’t, she’s my Queen who I adore.
So I sit next to her on the kitchen floor, both with backs against the kitchen counter doors and I say to her:
We grew up poor.
Lived in neighborhoods that had seen war, and still we endured.
Now we sit on the floor, in our home, dreaming of ways to soar.
And at our core we understand that our Lord will continue to bless us with more because our story is now legendary lore and it shall never be ignored.