Dred Scott pled before us,
and Plessy stood his ground,
history is so ominous when
it massages the ego of difference.
The old boys required
blinders on our eyes
when they lashed the African
to a funeral pyre.
I live in a sad sad country
where children become brides,
they tell you it doesn’t happen,
they lie, my friend, they lie.
When the sellers of souls
ensure the poor remain poor,
when they wield the cudgel of hate
the battered are bruised as
another mountain is created –
an edifice doomed to fall,
while placards carrying names
are replaced with the holy ones.
The gate they raise to protect
the riches amassed and held dear
is a gate that will hold them captive
when justice is normalized here.
Anne's mediocre poetry 