Mourning.

This is where we stand now,

afraid to expose our souls.

This is where we are now,

hiding from their bitter cold.

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No more wandering freely,

exploring the open world.

Cowering to take a walk,

dread and caliss, their convenience.

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Can I do this, can I do that?

These are the internal chant.

They stand with death at hand,

pointing and saying, “you can’t!”

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Now we walk in tiny cells,

waiting to be brow beat,

unable to afford oneself,

among their vile heat.

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Color does not make a man, or woman,

truth in action speaks,

if not, you lie within,

and the worms will continue to feast.

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