I have written this one before
The nights getting longer
The poem is getting shorter
It beckons me to think
Now I have act
Feel I must
Because thinking is tearing me apart
One half seeks resolution
And the other half replicates the other
I am in conflict
Like a gun in the midst of the toil of war
Racial war may be
Where black isn't white
And white isn't all they think they are
I suffer the same diminished ego
But when the lights go dim
Both the swirly halves turn into drizzling rain merging with puddles
The puddles.
Feel I must.