I am not yet connected to
nor do I pretend to know what
cannot fathom tones and colors
and judges banging their gavels.
My eyebrows raised
when one winter night on the radio
I heard stories of black hurt
And in my back yard
I still wonder what I might do
to cross the borders of my own deception.
I cannot pretend to know what it is like
But I can be a hand that reaches into the colors.
In schools I had felt once
that even at a young age
my first wounds were on the play ground.
It is not too uncommon to burn bridges
or walk across a bride while burning
the smoke burns our lungs and no one yells fire.
I had heard as a way to quite down the noises that life was unfair
but when the blood soaks the dust it laughs at earthly ways.
For it is now, not yet
what it soon shall be.
At one point
does one order the decree
and then the orders follow
and then it is wrapped in a bow?
In this case
patience feels like a weakness
instead of ally.
You have heard justice is poetic
is not yet fully human
is for now
hands reaching into the colors.