Concrete fists fall upon cold flesh as gold teeth clip the ground.
Chipped egos, broken souls, violence solves nothing.
As blood and sweat mixes it leaks a concoction related to destroying membranes and brain cells.
A 40 ounce of guilt and shame runs into the gutters.
Three mens blows fall like hail on a soul that seems to be unworthy of just walking home.
Shoes that carry souls of ancestors crush the spirit of a brother like cylinder blocks being dropped from buildings as if a representation of Haiti.
Brass and chain come across skull as if they forgot the struggle their great grandmothers went through just to stop the same falling across bare skin.
Quick, like a summer filled with fun and love, I see images of an unnescesary struggle by anscestors upon anscestors.
I see whips brought down by the back of swift shuttering hands.
I see chains, shame, and sorrow.
History flashes before my eyes and it scares me to death.
Three black men bang his face like gongs of war, ringing a noise far too unwanted.
And then I see his face.
Maybe it's just my mind making metaphors, but on his hands and knees recieving these knees to broken ribs and already cracked spirits...I see Martin Luther King shouting violence solves nothing.
He rolls over to see his attackers face.
As he lays in his title, he regrets relating himself as guttah.
Steel arms of flame blaze upon a fading soul as copper projectiles penetrate melting flesh like petaphiles.
My heart sinks like the titanic.
Floating into history as a tragedy, I seep sorrowful sobs.
He was only sixteen.