The only justice of the black boy
resides cocked in the chamber
awaiting a false retribution.
This weapon has been baptized
in the blood of strange fruit before
a time in which they would sway
from a tree but in a time
when they created the roots.
When will we realize that there
is no justice, it is just us.
Not once have we asked why the
final resting place of our
young black boys remain in the same
graveyard they were born in.
On the other side of the tracks,
down by the docks near the recreation center that yearns re-creation from its
people.
But we always knew they would bloom
whether in darkness
or by the goddess herself
because no one cares who you are
until you step out into the light.