The black poet’s pen is gently scratching
Scribing a world of suffering and pain
Deep set twilight eyes constantly searching
No longer bothered by thunder and rain

Black is his background, and gray is his skin
The demons that haunt him are always near
Never peaceful, separated from kin
His shadowed dreams are ever filled with fear

But his little hope is still hanging by
A white disk of light, seen through the forest
In uncertain times it lights up the sky
And in the black woods, he is the tourist

But sometimes the clouds of doubt will set in
And blacken his eyes, reminders of sin