Warehouse in Harlem

Strange little darkened warehouse

like this morning in America 

with love hearts on the windows and audio torture

are you sure you want to go through with this, 

I screamed

because there is no difference at all 

between whispers and secrets

and there is no difference at all 

between my pain and what you think I feel

its subjective, 

as much as the distance that exists between

greek mythology and the unconditional love

that invades my comfort zone, 

in this lit little room in counterproductive Harlem

with seven poems on the walls and a picture

of my cross to bare 

a code that belied opportunity and capitalism


When your flood hit it felt like wolves released. 

PoetryQuinton Farrow