yesterday America
committed suicide
but she didn’t die.
she rose, with fist closed
and blood in her eye.
the sound of wind
whisked her ear,
evoking times of biased fear.
eighteen hundred eighty-five,
severed chains she arrived
to commemorate grand defeat
of dixieland’s southern heat.
cuprum’s shade
transformed with time
to patina’s fade
without a shine.
an idea tried by oxidation
rust-resistant collaboration,
fire still held high in hand
with promise of united land.
by K.Osei
…
…
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