There is no comfort in being black.
The bourgeois are not safe.
The poor are not people.
And if life is but a vapor,
then ours is a painful exhale.
And we are cognizant of our condition,
yet I ponder if there be a cure.
For years, I assumed refinement was the solution.
But, eloquence will not sustain me,
nor should it.
It is learned pretentiousness.
that we soon shed
when hidden from the familiar gazes of strangers.
As God is my witness,
the ailment of our culture
is that our humanity is ignored because of our complexion.
“For who gave us these eyes,
that we should look on our brother and sisters and not see God?”