My superstitions are unable to last
‘cause I can’t hold my breath any longer.
There is no quickened pace,
there is no passing by.
I’m interred in a cemetery of brown hashtags.
I’ve been shoved into a reeking sepulcher.
The rot of
piles upon piles
of strange fruit
seeps into my pores.
Above me circle
insidious henchmen,
aroused by that unscrubbable
stench which intensifies as
new names are
perpetually etched
into my mourning spirit.
Overwhelmed,
my claustrophobic hyperventilations
leave me collapsed and breathless
along tombstones that are splattered
in the blood of the twice assassinated souls;
their innocent character drips
with fresh wounds.
In a vain attempt to rest
to avoid the
thick fog of festering inequity,
My lids begin to grow weary.
But, they frantically open wide
when I hear bellowing rise from the earth–
final pleas that haunt
the dialogue of my attempted slumber.
So I stay woke.
