He is a whirlwind
A swirling mass of locs and firewords
Blazin’ past/present and future-red/yellow and green
Clutching mic and audience in an iron grip painted black
Colored brown and Rasta words
That sound rounded falling from his lips
Setting off chain reactions
Waking sleeping gods and finding love missing in action
Quenching thirsts that say men can no longer make women swoon
And that there are no more to want…
No more good in them
He is no good to them blinded by metals dug from the earth 
While ignoring the Earth it comes from
No good for those too strong to accept a man with potential 
And too weak to support themselves at all

He is a whirlwind
A swirling mass of locs and firewords
Blazin’ past/present and future-red/yellow and green
He sits on high
Smell of incense and bass heavy reggae rhythms
That make all sway back and forth like windswept palms 
On islands filled with Rastafari ways
That make us want to stand tall and face the sun
And warm ourselves in his words
He is a snapshot of a poet warrior 
Clashing against the world with words wielded as armor and sword
Balance cloth crown upon regal head 
Never bowing
Never breaking
Never fitting comfortably into stereotypes and boxes 
To checkmark and identify who he is
He is a whirlwind
A swirling mass of locs and firewords
Blazin’ past/present and future-red/yellow and green