The Black River Mills

The black river mills are seen in the distance The red skies show spiraling, gray clouds The earth is man’s canvas And the mills slowly mix the paint We have seen the devastation We have felt the desperation Some of us wallow in our watercolor And leave the canvas blank The mills crush their bones to the bottom Mixing them nicely into the paint People are pushed in without thought Others go in willingly The river mills are closer to my view And my brush is stiff and unused Women and children walk alongside the rivers The elderly follow and sometimes shake their heads On a cliff, I watch them all My brushstroke stiff and worthless Shakily I climb down the precarious cliff Brush in hand Canvas in view Watching people suffer in the paint of their mistakes People wanting to be part of the picture I never desired this. . . I wanted to create a masterpiece The women and children are gone —except one I see a little black boy standing alone He is watching me curiously Tears in his eyes He is a watcher He was born to suffer He never desired this either “I’m sorry.” The boy smiles sadly and takes my hand “It’s okay. I understand.” I shed digital tears And program some control It is quiet, save for the sound of the river mills It has mixed well The colors are astounding “Are you sure you want to stay?” The boy nods. “No one wants me mixed with them.” He is a creator He is a watcher I dip my brush into the churning waters I then hand it to the little black boy “The world is your canvas now. . .” I whisper. It was NEVER mine to meddle with. . . And we are set apart for a reason But together we are incomparable