Libation for Chase Poole

Hear the 15-year-old crying “Momma,” "Momma" as he lays dying Shot in D.C. Juneteenth crowd. A voice of suffering rings out loud to a country’s conscious ears, that are deaf to blood and tears, from bullets sounding through the air, as joy and justice were on minds there. Veins yet tender, young and bold Rose with warmth and sleep in cold? Where was his mind as he lay dying? For his mother, he was crying Not on his father did he call. Had he known this man at all? Sleep in peace, Oh "native son," upon on the streets of Washington. Libations to your memory, a soul the struggle has set free. Slain by a wanton hand unknown, before you were a man full grown.