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.