bodies drop, no pulse
graves with no name inscribed on
downtown festive no more

The words of the King, said long ago and towards a vision of he who no longer breathes,
Of a future where different colored children are intertwined and men sees but not seethes,
Spoken by a man of dark skin who rose to be the king of freedom and equality and love,
Spoken in front of tall white buildings and spoken below a flying white dove.

He said, “I have a dream,” and those four words became a legend told to the next century
He raised his hands and shouted to the sky above, “Freedom and liberty!”
Even as decades went by those words were repeated and repeated, darkness into dawn,
And when children ask for the source, men say, “The Luther King is his name” to the fawns.

Yet of new times, southern states are still with loaded shotguns, ebonic skin shun red in the sun
Voices heard, yet brown children still fall seperated and their killers still hold loaded guns
Their mother(less)s hold them—Pietà—and shout to the sky above, “Freedom and liberty!”
And marches with signs saying “Black Lives Matter” carry the wake and funeral for equality.

Reaper comes to take the child, yet in death's place is the plants of a possible future of hope
Where society rebuilds and remakes and rehashes and restores, for light we wish to *****
“Is justice and righteousness rolling down?” "Is it like a mighty river who saves?”
We the people ask, and the King wonders too—the King, your king, who watches from his grave.