White Column Ressurrection

‘WHITE COLUMN RESSURRECTION’ Even now you stand poised with memories of a corned cobbed pipe in one hand-tight gripped lapel in the other-perched against thick southern charmed columns positioned on a once so powerful veranda . Peering across your fields at the silhouettes of a people once controlled by fear of a self- regulated people-whose hopes are for nothing less than resurrecting their white columns. Your beastly-uncivilized-arrogance, as Nero himself stands erect-as if mans very bane existence lay solely upon your word and yours alone. Hope to interrupt a culture taking their rest from labor of long ago lay within your desires...to carry on the brutality of your lineage upon them-a legacy handed down from generations before. Sounds of rustling chains echo through time driving the very ego within you-to the valley of dry bones-in hopes these bones live again-taking a people back in time when they were told their place? It was your reality which took away all their freedoms to hope-freedom to dream-freedom to live out their individual created purpose-instead tossing them into a dead valley they would once again join. Ole’ man of yesterday what has changed since the ruin of your veranda-crumbling of your columns-white suits scented by the aroma of smoke from ravished cities-stained by the blood of your silhouettes. Certainly not your White Column Resurrection. Their imaginations to be ‘free men’ were brutally invaded by a people who were more beastly than the beast of the fields and fowl of the air-and no more learned than those labeled as uncivilized beings. Tho’ freedoms gavel has fallen upon the portals of man-they remain as if they were never spoken-never uttered- for you are fearful of the strength a people possess-fearful of what shall be-a people arising by the power of their own God! Oh Lord our God! Precious Lord take our hands lead us on let us stand we are tired we are weak we are worn…in the morning, in the morning when the dark clouds roll away! Self appointed curators as high judges over all-sneering down with pre-sentences in hand-ready to hand down the most brutal punishments upon those not possessing your flawed lineage-mirrored image-skin or its tone…is there something you failed to remember? Lest you forget-it was the boastful you who forcefully violated the beauty of a people you deemed nothing-a people you valued above nothing but below everything-of which none are worthy of the very air prolonging their foul existence? The darkness bears witness of your secrets-unwarranted penetrations upon a dark-skinned people you lusted for. Your vain disdain raped their minds and bodies-leaving behind secret created ‘images’ of you growing within. The same darkness bears witness of your hidden schemes of ridding the very connector of you and the dark- skinned people you lay with-the very image of veranda and silhouette-as no proof to your self- inflicted judgment. Places you thought hidden testify to the secret meetings of the belle of the ball satisfying her strong desire for the stead of a darker pigment. So, your blood your lineage runs through the veins of a people you so despise. Until nothing is left but…the quiet of darkness…all sins of evasion are gone never to be heard of again. No more White Columns Resurrections’.