Signs of Intellect

The good news: hiphop still has a reputable underground culture.
The bad news: its underground.

I stretch my arms towards the sky like blades of tall grass.
The sun beats between my shoulders like Carnival drums.
I sat still in hopes that it would help my wings grow,
So that I could really be fly.
And then she arrived.
Like day break inside a railway tunnel;
Like the new moon; Like a diamond in the mines;
Like high noon to a drunkard--sudden.
She made my heart beat in the now-now time signature.
Her skin, a canvass for ultraviolet brushstrokes.
She was the sun's painting.
She was a deep Cogniac color.
Her eyes sparkle like lights along the new city.
Her lips pursed as if her breath was too sweet and full
for her mouth to hold.
I said, "You are the beautiful distress of mathematics."
I said, "For you, I will peel open the clouds like new fruit,
And give you lightning and thunder as a dowry.
I will make the sky shed all of its stars like rain,
And I would clasp the constellations across your waist,
And I will make the heavens your cape,
And they will be pleased to cover you."
--Mos Def