as always, this may enhance your experience:
the oak trees got tired before we did, taking on unnatural burdens and sheltering the down trodden.
the rain gave up on us, rinsing bloody ground and disguising tears never got regular.
the wind lost patience; it stopped bringing comfort and in turn the stench of bad news arrived.
a collection of voices asked when will they get tired, them that fell victims to their father’s lost wars? them that knew pain like the creases in the palms of their hands. those who’s backs once straight as carolina pine, now gnarled like georgia oak.
will another child come here and not have feet nor legs to carry him toward justice?
when will we fractured and scattered, dwelling in places with heavy air and locked doors, and stained glass with long chairs and smelling of new money stop this and look in?
the fire that interrupted you last night, interrupted me, our nights won’t bring us peace until our days are peaceful.
late evening hours gave up the secret of short time and fading hope, let us not clutch hands and drag our feet will suspended by rights bill that heat food, but never bring it.
conditioned air without a home is a wind that offers no comfort and only brings the stench of bad news.
is there one that can pass through the sawgrass and not bleed?
one who can stand at the obelisk and address the people’s who skin has been sun kissed and blessed by the ground on which they stand?
can a nation be built by those same people and sustain through high water, self-inflicted pain, strong medicine, sneak attacks and poison tongue?
can we come together and not march?