Thursday, July 18, 2013

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

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