I need not wear a rose colored hat of old;
Nor a darkened remnant of today.
The hue of my flesh is evidence enough:
My place in this walled democracy…
Whose water ways are liquid graves
Of generations of my ancestors.
Even within my own ghetto,
It is wearisome to venture around
As the imprisoning guardians
Also stalk and seek here,
The pleasures of the flesh and kill.
The only commodities that we truly own here,
Are the fragile mortal lives we endure;
But they too, are mere entities of damaged collateral…
That the life bankers may tantalize unchecked;
Or lay hold of at the beckoning of their whimsical will.
Though fixed eyes have captured villainous reapers,
Let us hark unto reality and be not deceived
By others who must now grieve. Let’s play this out
With an ever discerning ear…patiently hearing…
Never forgetting what has really happened here.