In those lines, one, by, one, we walked
Toward our death. Slowly,
Making our way to a land unknown.
Where fires burn in our fingertips.
Dragons scratch at our backs.
Wild roars echo in ears.
Then our lives become nothing more than
A sorry tale from stars ago. Slowly,
Merging into the fault of ancestors
Where it is nothing to be look back on.
Where \"the past is the past\".
Blocking it out of our minds.
Scared to live in the shoes of those mistreated.
In this ignorance we forget that:
Hundred, by, Hundred, it still happens today.
None of this ever ended. Slowly,
it once again become a crime to be black.
A crime to have a different belief.
A crime to be attracted to the \"Wrong\" sex.
So all of us, except for the lucky few,
Walk toward our death.
Whip.
Chain.
Squeeze.
Whip us into shape, like egg whites.
Chain us to limitations, like ghosts in a story.
Squeeze us into boxes, like ordered objects.