A Trillion Sirens Screaming Foul

I do not know what happens to the eyes when they witness a soft human neck smashed with a barbaric knee.
A casual, cold-blooded hand resting on the side pocket of the law. Only for as long as it takes to collapse his life.
I cannot discern what damage occurs to one’s ears when they hear his desperate pleas choke forth. Child-like, calling out for his dead mother to save him from the savage on the street.
I don’t fully grasp what happens to the nerve endings of the fingertips when they depress the soft off switch to the tragic, archaic news.
My incipient olfactory sense has little wisdom of ancient smoke lofting from the flames of righteous, racial rage.
Nor have I known the taste of malicious, murderous blood.

I am wholly aware of this.
Something smells rotten in Minneapolis.
A trillion sirens screaming foul.
History’s taste of untold lives, vanished.
But alas, the one named George in view of all.
His mothers child, even in death.
Heinous acts that deeply darken the soul.

The world yesterday
Minneapolis today.
Listen up, see it
feel it, smell it’s decay.
Speak it, if you care.
But for the Grace of God
if you dare.

NB Wilde

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