Held hostage by the didactic rituals of
Diacritic mindsets,
It is a scourge to separate man
From his brothers.
The semblance of articulate postulations
Have been conceived in the wombs of liars.
This quo of assumed status,
This contemptuous agility
With regard to bias.
We toil under the same sky,
And drink from the same river,
And the caress of the wind
Falls upon all faces.
The earth has been bestowed upon those that walk it.
Upon those who have been returned to it.
To those who cleave its riches and separate its chaff.
The misbegotten, forlorn and forgotten
Lay in un-named graves
They seek the light of their identities
In cries of historic laments
And yet the world in gasping sighs
Sits as if they are deaf.
Low the time has come that men should stop and listen
And release this burdensome chain
Of self hate and loathsome disdain.
O, how hard the answer to such a common question,
It’s in the mind of man to continue to be simple,
But far worse in the reality of this
Is how difficult it has become
Filled with dark decay
O so Bitter some.