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The black woman in the rain.
I see her struggling through the way,
but all go by in vain.
The lump in her leg makes it tough to move,
Like the wound I have which shoves me in a
cocoon.
The shadow of the woman is so formidable and
dark,
The dogs around her greet her with the barks.
she sees the on goers with an umbrella, raincoat
or Car,
and wonders to herself if she is left out
because of a scar.
Deciding for herself which way to go, she laid
out a step,
Looking at me she smiled as if to sympathize
with what all I had wept.
She is a facsimile of me…
Of all the things she had about herself which
cornered me into murk,
She did give me the pleasure of guilt that too
with a jerk.
What was so certain about my resemblance to
hers?
The tenebrosity which she had in equal amounts
as me,
or the
grapple she had with the water while everyone else was free?
As much luck struck by against her, We did have
the dark faith which put down the obstacles by a lure.
She is a facsimile of me,
the black woman in the rain.
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