The same month we watched
the last sheets of gold fall
into the city streets, we found
ourselves running down them,
angry and nauseated, towards
a gold dome we’d grown to hate.
They were killing Troy Davis,
And I was gasping for the same breath
I kept wanting to hold. We screamed
back at the sirens. Lights scattered
in the rain, staining it the most sinister
of blues as we stared back, standing
in our streets, the blue stained us, too.
Tainting his murder, sanctioned
by the state. Nothing is forever.
(Nothing Gold Can Stay.)
I only ever knew your name.
The winter months were silenced,
stagnant–stifled by the dead and
grey. And within Atlanta’s vacancies
we felt our chains–were never the same.
We longed to act, to lack discernment,
to take, not earn it, not care to explain.
I wanted to drive us past the borders
of this state, because all we we want
is entropy and all we have is passion.
This spring would be alive if the air
was filled with ashes of everything
imprisoning us, surveilling us,
because our bones are rigid matrices
growing brittle from empty inertia.