“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit. Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.”- Omar Khayyam

A dream came to a Shepherd boy one day

Was told of a magnificent treasure that

belonged to him

Existing within the pyramids of Egypt

He confided into a gypsy woman who

Never seen or had knowledge of these monuments

Yet, she told him to claim such a treasure

Along the way he met a King

A 200 year old Alchemist whose life force grew young

The grand elixir

The Lazarus pit

The philosopher’s stone

That cling to his soul like Ankhs to Pharaoh’s sarcophagus before tomb

Told him “Those who don’t understand their personal legends will fail to comprehend their teachings”

Maktub

Translated from Arabic it means “It is Written”

So follow your path

Fore Allah told you in that dream to Become a Warrior of the Light…

My mother is an Alchemist

An alchemist has the ability to make gold from the worthless

She, be the alchemist to forge light from where it cease to exist

How she  is able to make a home from park bench

Make meal from crumbs when stomach touches

How she can make life form from dust

And dark matter

Blow breath into a son who was made to become soldier of the light

Maktub, It is Written

I remember the first time she showed me how to perform alchemy

I was a young boy crying over the shards of broken dreams

That left me bleeding in iron murky puddle

She grasped my juvenile hands

kissed my forehead

And interlocked them within her own.

That nite

She took what was broken of mine

And transmuted into a prayer

Taught me God’s name

And it is defined as “Causes to Become”

Maktub .“It is Written”

Have you ever watched how a mother teaches her son to pray?

How bed frame on bent knees

And Buzz Lightyear bed sheets can suddenly become a temple

Become the house where Jehovah rests his head

Have you ever really watched-

How she prays for your happiness before her own?

How she forged Zion from your soul

Jerusalem’s cascade overflowing flooding soul’s gateway   

While it rains upon your crown

Maktub. It is Written

She transmuted a father out of her own shadow

When the physical of mine went absent

To be raised by a single mother who sacrifices her own life force for my own

Happiness

There would be days when we roamed

Like nomads searching for oasis

While watching my mother age

Like time stands still

Her skin forged of rose gold armor

That never cracked

Fighting off the demons that tried to separate us

Judicially saying she was unfit to raise me

In those conditions

Maktub. It is Written

That God will be with us

Walk us through these wars

She be the Alchemist to turn

Hell fire to oven

And always feasted

The Alchemist is now married

Found her fate with a man who

Also taught me how to perform

This practice

This magic…

Her armor cracked one night
Sobbing immensely in a mirror
holding up a picture of a man
Whose face reflected her very own
Tear stained newspaper clippings
Of a phantom face haunting ink

The pieces of her armor
shattered to floor like glass
She was naked and wallowing
In a pool of murky iron and tears

I walked in her room
grabbing every single broken piece
cupped them within our bloody hands
Transmuting them into a prayer

  • W.I.B.