Trayvon Martin: His Grim Reaper

 

 

 

TRAYVON MARTIN: HIS GRIM REAPER

You'll misunderstand my grief, confuse it
perhaps with a lost hand at poker,
cluck your tongue
at my sour grapes, scold me, tell me
time has come for me to get over it.
I'll be chided for not accepting the turn
of how these wheels of justice works,
move on will be the repeated whisper

under your exasperated breath,
as you tire of my whining complete
with its wine and cheese, but mine,
this bitter anguished whine
will not subside, nor be stilled by your
impatient sidesteps this time.
This time the bell rung that summoned
hell himself cannot be undone,
we've one too many sacrificial sons
dismissed with callous disregard,
his worth diminished by a bullet
through his heart.

It was the Grim Reaper he met

on his way home, the stalker

whose mission he could not

defeat, who stalked him,

blocked all routes by which

he sought to retreat. A Reaper

summoned straight from hell
whose spaws now paw and wish

him well. But this time
the bell rung that summoned
hell himself cannot be undone

nor the debt we owe to our

lost son. He is our catalyst

of change, not its victim

but its name as we chant

Trayvon in the streets, in our

prayers, in our sleep. As we
resolve to bring an end

once and for all to this

perpetual sin.

©  Peggy Eldridge-Love

Photo Credit: Image credit: mj23 / 123RF Stock Photo