Prompt:

Verse 1 Cracked the bedroom window — winter had the copper pipes froze tight Mama at the kitchen table — Bible open, candle for the night Neighbor on the corner had a hunger and a fury — still he fought right Face it — what the daylight brought was weight we carried out of sight Summertime the blacktop had a crack where all the roots would push through ground Everybody moving like the hustle was the muscle, every sound Brother caught a charge — the years came back and nothing came around Watched him from the porch and tried to piece it but it came unwound Father wrote a letter to a brother that he hadn't heard from ever Sealed it up and kept it in a drawer — the weather kept them tethered together Quiet was a riot — every trial was a change in weather Face it — wore the silence like a coat and carried it like leather Son asleep upstairs, the whole house silent, every memory going cold Every bridge I built was for a future still unwritten to unfold Same hands my grandfather hardened in the harvest — same I hold Face it — everything I carry is the story being told Verse 2 Catch a proper rhythm, split the prism, let the light refract Life's a matter of fact, the artifact is how you write the act Spit a bitter syllable, the citadel is under siege Plunder fees from underlings who hunger for the blunted weed Watch the pendulum swing, a venomous sting, the denim is frayed Generous shade from the canopy, humanity is heavily weighed Jumping out the pocket like a rocket with a busted fin Trust the rust, the dust will settle right before the hustle spin Grimy on the cadence, ancient patience in the basement gloom Placing in the matrix, face it, pacing in a vacant room Levels of the devious, oblivious to trivial Living in the physical but visually amphibian Switch the flow, a glitch in code, the road is paved in asphalt Bash faults, caching all the memory in a glass vault Generational wealth is mental health wrapped in a tight bind Sight blind, seeking out a beacon with the right mind Verse 3 Metal in the kettle, watch it boil to a fever pitch Weaver stitch the fabric, magic habits of the eager rich Never that, the weather's flat, a thermostat of frozen lore Chosen for the closing door, the ocean on the floor Pops left a legacy, allegedly a remedy Pedigree of felonies and melodies in memory Melanin and metal tins, settling for minimum Pendulum is swinging with the rhythm of the synonym Caught in the crossfire, boss hire, lost tire tread Bread winners fed dinners, sinners in a wire bed Face it — the foundation is a basement full of ghosts and rust Roast the crust, boast and bust, ashes in the ocean dust Carry it to bury it, the chariot is breaking down Taking crowns from faking clowns, waking up the aching town Granddad's hands mapped the blueprint in the calluses Analyzing balances and drinking from the chalices Verse 4 Back into the bedroom, headroom shrinking as the thoughts expand Caught the sand, falling through the hourglass, a boss's hand Lost the map but found the compass hidden in the floorboards Warlords of the poor wards, settling the core scores Juggling the struggle like a smuggler in the dead of night Bread is tight, thread the needle, bleeding for the shred of light Look into the mirror, clearer vision of the man to be Canopy of sanity, vanity is a fallacy Wordplay on the double-time, subtle crime, the grind is real Bind the steel, blind the squeal, finding what the mind conceal Son is waking up, the cup is filling with the morning sun Warning done, the storm is won, the forming of the core begun Face it — it’s a cycle and I’m breaking every spoke I find Awoke the mind, the smoke is blind, leaving every yoke behind This the final chapter of the rapture in the manuscript Hand a grip, land the ship, standing on the anvil tip