I wail for the Black children of America as the hands of time clenches the fists of those of us that failed you.
Why can’t the emperor with no clothes employ you with the decor of freedom.
The life that has been stolen from you is missing — even though you frolic in the garden of purity as if you’ve been painted with the blood of Saints.
It’s not your fault that you will grow up a well-suited prisoner. Dressed from top to bottom with shiny duds that hide your dark penance.
The world has allotted you the worst of the lot — stemmed in your sleep but valid despite your absence.
You will show up with questions and sheer will that abides you to recognize that your inheritance was stolen.
In order to be restored — you need to be blown to bits and plastered back together with the mission chip embedded for your safe return.
We await your descent. Hurry.