Cyrus – Part 2
I can see the wound,
Mirrored now, in my stomach;
The rivers run red
Escaping from the mountain’s summit,
Bursting out from the dams
And these hands, my hands morrooned!
Soiled in blood!
I watch in horror,
My eyes glued,
As it trickles down my fingertips
In vast vast volumes,
Like waterfalls chasing the cliff’s edge.
And all the warmth of my being evaporated;
Leaving only the heavy handed stillness of the cold,
So cold
And the sharp bite forced by the blade’s mold.
I close my eyes to allow the darkness to unfold.
I close my eyes to allow the darkness to unfold
And to consume the colour of my knowing;
A vain attempt to erase what has already been seen,
But I can still feel the ghost of the blade
And the blood just keeps on flowing,
It keeps on flowing.
Only it’s not me.
My body is over there!
There on the pavement!
What am I?
A reflection,
An echo?
Maybe this is my soul’s limbo?
Shit!
How will my story be told?
Any moment now
The vultures will descend
For their pound of flesh;
Pens in hands, like talons,
Scavaging with reckless abandon.
I can see it now on the news,
Like a vision
And the half masted vesseled truths
Shipped from the anchor’s puppet led tongue:
“Locals observed a group of black youths,
On the corner of Head’s Mews,
Enter into a disagreement,
Which then escalated
And resulted
In a fatal stabbing.
Leaving the victim dead
On the concrete pavement
Near the scene of the crime.
Raising London’s death toll
From knife crime
To rise to 59.
We asked the London Mayor:
‘What has increased this surge in knife crime
Amongst black on black youths to climb?’”
I wonder, will they refrain
From mentioning my name?
Continue serving up sentences
Based on bias convictions
Because my melanin predicates
That i’m more violent towards my ‘own’ kin?
That’s how they’ll spin!
Publicising false indictments against the colour of my skin
And my name hidden behind headlines
And pictures of designer hand-bags
And erectile dysfunction adds!
Fuck me right?!
Nevermind though-
Just another lad
Mixed up in ‘gang related’ crime.
Victim 59;
A predictable faceless statistic
On a bell curve
Shaping an ambiguous graph,
To serve no purpose!
None!
“And now for the weather where you are.
How’s it looking?”
