Whitewashed fences mark
the division of shallow lines
of demarcation marring a bitter plain
Truth that too can be seen
as a balance with bruised knees
whispering prayers of bent supplication
Looking for a smile seen in clouds
of judgment and blurred hazes
The drum beats of life and echoes still,
in cracked addicted alleys of fairness
gone awry with a broken wheel
spinning on a loom of time
Native pains and naive indiscretions inexcusable, earth telling a compelling
tale if you can dig your hand in the dirt
Seeking through the mire for truth
and tales long since buried in the sands
of time, which whisk away history,
books burned with lies full of distaste
Imprinted on impressionable minds
like miscreant clones sprung
from fanatical factories
Indoctrinated with false education
and breeding still more hate, echoing,
listening to the heartstrings playing
a concerto of truth, an aria of sad realism
A beating of a drum
that has long since been silenced
by an oppressive, regressive hand
These times give me fear when courage
is what is needed most, post haste
Hate seems to be in such a fury
hurrying at a madman's pace.
**** Trump. Take a knee.