See that Black man there?
His hands don’t look like anything special,
Not particularly strong or gnarled
His skin is dark and smooth,
well kept, but it knows the labor of the day.
His long slender fingers are adorned with small scars, burns, and long forgotten bruises.
In one, a bloody noose with rope burns at the neck to match
The other, a beat to hell bible,
Complemented by the brand of a cross at the shoulder blades.
Nigga knows how to accessorize.
He is dressed in the finest clothes
Abyss black suit and tie and
Blinding white crisp pressed shirt
Fitted, wrapping and highlighting his strong and hulking physique.
He is bald, clean shaven, statue of a man
What he really wears is a solemn face
Hosting passion hiding behind
The long piercing stare of steel grey eyes.
From the deafening silence of rage that suffocates the righteous breath.
He is a perfect picture of meekness
He lives in the clapboard house in our books today
forgotten underneath the freeway,
The red bricks of high rises pitied
The multimillion stucco in the cul-de-sac token in the burbs,
Behind cold steel bars, he is black gold.
Find him sitting under a bleached and wicked tree.
Bring sacrifices of betrayal, cruelty, and malice.
Bring some of the rage, despair, and fear.
Give poured offerings of tears, sweat, and blood of your body.
Recite the poems of silenced voices because all lives matter.
Sung the spirituals of captive freedom, militarized police, of bullets both steel and word sending flesh, of heart disease, sickle cell, and the restoration of a nation’s greatness[?]
He hears you and know you well
Though, you know, Crow has a certain ring.
ellievsbear
gummygunk
kianamaiart
theartofmadeline
snowghoul
tangentwithtanner
