poetry

In Due Time

We asked: When will we be free?

Massah responded by inflicting Wounds that shredded our backs.

The first strike crackled loud enough to make the earth tremble.

The next twelve paled in comparison. We no longer existed.

In due time, we thought

to console ourselves.

 

We asked: When will we be equal?

They responded: “Separate but equal.”

All we saw was separate.

Separate lives,

not nearly as equal to theirs.

In due time, we thought

To console ourselves.

 

We asked: Are we not free?

Our peaceful demonstrations were met with violence.

We preached and were assassinated. We walked.

Mock-angels appearing in hooded white ensembles

Destroyed our families.

My mother. Your father.

Your brothers. My sisters. Sons. Daughters. Lovers. Friends.

Strung up to rot. Windpipes crushed.

In due time, we thought

to console ourselves.

 

I thought: This is it!

Finally, a Leader & role models that looked like me.

The color of my skin shall no longer determine my self-worth.

But I open my eyes to find that the world has once again

looped back in time for the worse.

Hands Up, Don’t Shoot

has become the cry of my generation as we

seek to escape the persecution of crooked minds

and racists figures.

In due time, I think

to console myself.

 

R. K

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