The 44th Wonder is the Blackest You Will Ever See
He came with the scepter of light that recruited the symbols of a wondering knight, walking into yonder with the moon as a guide. The clouds never suffices the warmth of detached fluff — fluttering into stoic recognition of the gathering as they breathe in the clearing, and delegate the dust in the windmill of victory.
44 is the number of pride and recovery.
The Star-Spangled Banner, once in tatters beamed in the brisk air as the sun delegated footsteps around the brown bodies dressed in the warmth of tears and the dew of awakened dreams — that provided the soundtrack to a hymnal procession.
Songs of praise led by the man with an assigned number — that men greater than he plowed for as they performed in the heat of their masters — and for the benefit of the visions that carried the sign that looked ominously numeric in delivery.
44 was added without consent.
The guidance of time, energy, promise and fulfillment can be subtracted in the table of cornfields, rioted streets, color-coded venues, and the bullets with hallowed surfaces that need the jagged teeth of mammals to provide dramatic beats.
The reward for damaged surfaces and ravaged souls can be resurfaced in the numbers that spun around with every life lost, with every black citizen that drank the blood of a resurrection — that was instituted within the confines of a plot that took a leading role that many read for but failed to garner.
44 belonged to the 44th Wonder.
He was, is and always will be the furnished ideal of the perfect made imperfect so that perfect won’t have to succumb to the ugliness of being too perfect.
Spurned like a cipher into the granulated feast with leeches at the table who wear his number with disdain but silently realign the mathematics of reasonable doubt in earnest — but, lose with defiance.
There is no way to curse the gifts that are brought in fullness without the half-laden platter of the nonsensical that holds on for the sake of Whiteness and country.
Your God betrayed you to save us.
The grace of such a privilege will end with putrid vengeance. It has come. We are now in the dawn of flammable congestion with every piece of trash under attack from the wind that spins in the cold, hot air.
The 44th Wonder is the blackest you will ever see.
Blackouts will now be a thing. You will sit in the light and suddenly be buried under the blackness of what you once rejoiced for even when you almost lost it all but gained way more than you imagined you lost.
So many sold their way in an effort to feel their way. You are now back to walking with your eyes closed and no matter how much you try to see — the stumbling blocks will need daylight to trip you.
You saw black and freaked the fuck out. It was too black and you were to light to follow.
The 44th is our Black and the darker the better because the nights always seem long — but in reality the stars only appear and bless in a window of a time when the Wonder streaks the sky — with flashing light.
We are the blackest he’s ever seen — and now, we blend.