Untitled

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As the beat of the monitor drops
and all hands come crashing down
pink drains out of masked faces
into a mother's heart
as rage, confusion,
and dread
dictate her emotions.
Similar hands fumble
in an empty wallet.
Pennies crash to the floor
and waters tainted with the toxins of corruption
carry strenuous days into
the hands of the rich.
The sweat is for a striving mind
who carries milk to his brothers
and strangers
for the opportunity
to read a single book
and discover
a cure for his city.
Yet the milk has soured and soiled
and the crumpled pages are only filled with
the strains of disease
that have led the local preacher
to the sky.
His words were harmonies.
and his music still touches their hearts
and instills life
back into their hopes.
They will not fall.
With their hands upour
hands up.
As we continue to neglect
a growing institution
that not only embodies ‘isms’ but is our introduction
To the fate that we are paving.
It is the flashing light before the monitor stagnates,
the work that seems to go to waste,
the lives we lose daily,
the identities and purposes begging to be tapped,
to wars and fights about rights We
think the world...
it only throws bombs, yes.
Yet often,
they explode into heroes.

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