There was boy who swallowed all the crayon colours,
He lived in a tent, under on sun-beaten and bleached tree,
He was a prey to those who saw him as a predator.
When all he wants is to bring food for his mother,
so he hunts just like others,
In his sentimental province,
Laden with the prejudice his fathers bore and now he was to carry,
He hunched his back to fortuitously holsters them, but the loads were too heavy even for his strong spine, he cried 'my neck hurts'.
The vapour of stigma-saturated water filled his lungs, he pleaded, 'please, I can't breathe'
The subtle taste of inadequately seasoned judgement were in refusal to his bowels, he moaned 'my stomach hurts'
The pains he felt ran through the vine end of his receptors,
they were not pains he felt just at that moment,
He lived with them all through his life,
Until even that same life was taken.
Knowing that was not the verge,
Knowing the fight continues when he is in the books, he concluded 'everything hurts'.
It happened to his fathers,Till, Garner, Diallo,...
And many others with whom his name will be included,
He told them from where they stood afar off on the glass toned soil and looked back at those he stands as a martyr for, 'they are going to kill me'.
They all chanted his name 'Floyd'.
#justice for Floyd