The Thin Color Line
I smell them,
coming like a landfill
racing against my success,
a race with spaces
divided by a thin color line
The world is printed like an aged Washington Post;
quite a man he was, old George
Nothing akin to Abraham,
who knows, a man is just a man
Of the few that perched on the edge,
some, their seats were taken when the three came
In September we break devil’s backbone
and cut the camel thorns;
some were used for fuel,
but one was allowed to flourish
Near Ground Zero, a monument was erected
echoing the sacrifices to Allah,
because he begged for New York like Jerusalem, the unholy
So, you see, my calamity is painted
Deep within my roots
are things that boil my blood
and colored me for my judgment
While the races are numerous,
we forfeit the only we should run
We are HUMAN, we are of that race only
I’ve mentioned the “college” in prior times,
how my journey was almost blurred;
I was forced along a path directed by a thin color line,
and ordered to run a race the God did not design
Copyright © Earle Brown | Year Posted 2011
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