Writer Thomas Mosley’s poetic reflection on the senseless loss of Black lives.
Your nights shielded you from Emmett Tills so that you could discover his life from your life.
Sheets of cannibals persuaded the guns of Mississippi that Medgar Evers flesh was not human.
Freedom was a duplication of my counterparts and I sat to escape my day of work with Rosa Parks.
What manner of divination has my eyes seen, where does it end for your equality of my justice
I journeyed to another duration of time and found my brothers and sisters in crimes of my times.
On the streets of the city I find myself looking for cover as I escape the fears of my dreams that I traveled.
Searching for ways to introduce the quarry of my soul, they reject me with the cold steels of fire.
Infuriated I ask the question, what year does it takes to see me from four hundred years ago in chains.
Where does it end from the mistake of my Taser on Fruitvale Station ending my life in pretense?
I gather my thoughts and proceed the avenue of living and hear cries of another searching my being.
Notwithstanding the draught of my brother, Akai Gurley, losing his breathe to the uniform of death.
Where do I go to find humanistic behavior that I might regain my balance from target practices in black?
Surrendering my soul for your enchantments of pleasure, I conditioned my mind to escape your torture.
My birth right to breath is documented on your reality of consummation as Eric Garner takes his rest.
Black days are not white days; history presented us with gallows of ropes as you blessed us with laughter
Singing songs of victory, Dr. King presented love to the nation and his breath was caught up in silence.
The inside of yesterday was corralled with the inside of democracy of what we encountered in the fields.
We shall overcome was the high praise; where does it end when Walter Scott’s hands are in view of your gun?
Slave ships brought me to freedom in chains and fetters; where does it end without my voice of my choice.
Whips kept me silent in the storms of the night; where does it end for my life to encounter my destination.
Afflictions of apathy crusaded my dreams and I reached the island of social injustice within my pyramids.
Where does it end, where does it end, where does it end? Heaven’s gate smiled upon me,
And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.
Written by Theodore Mosley