An Anthology On People who are Dead

The Voice (Compassion)

I am afraid of you,
I am afraid of all the mornings new,
The snow fell through the sunshine,
Became a hailstorm and ground me, mighty fine,
I yelled, "I can't breathe",
I screamed, "I can't breathe",
I whispered, "I can't breathe",
Still you stood glaring, flashing your ugly teeth,
I did not die,
I live through every word, truth or lie,
I am the cloudy mist,
But in my bones, some have a hit/burglary list,
The military might not be left with a choice,
If you regret Minneapolis,
It would then have one,
It all would start downing with sun,
I won't come back,
Yet the changes will be on track ...

Wolf

The light of the candles are dimming softly,
The wolves are calling out in packs,
The darkness is on its edge , grimly,
The forgotten are the blacks,
The cottons and the milks run to safety,
Hiding in a lighted cave,
The bonfire is a symbol of unhindered honesty,
By the black slave,
But well I should ask you , who are the wolves today?
You know it, but would you ever say ?

Short

The spectrum of life is unmistakably short,
She walked on water , till shoulders became her port,
Laughter could be heard, thinking it is a joke,
The walk ended and water did a choke,
Blood did not spill, spilt was thoughts,
Power and colour became her gunshots,
We lost somebody, maybe a swimmer one day,
That door is shut forever, for anybody to say....

Mind

I am angry , I am calm,
The world never was this warm,
The people are burning, yet I am quiet,
The storm is churning, yet i am quiet,
Colours are for the blind,
Colours in the mind,
Judge not with skin,
Somebody lost his kin,
Everybody matters ,
The world shatters,
The guardians are blind,
Colours in the mind...
I shall be loud, I shall scream,
Black and white both on our team ....
Virtues will be the crowning glory,
That is what will be our story..

Going Back

The shade of coffee and the shade of grief,
Tied together by the snow thief,
An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind,
But despite not an eye , he is blind,
He lies in his grave,
Dug by the man who wore snow,
Back in pre- Lincoln times - " Coffee is my slave,
That you ought to know."

Both are gifts of nature,
Close to mother earth,
All of mankind is our earth's literature,
Standing like brothers and sisters for what is worth.

Brown

He never hit a cockroach,
But regularly belted his wife,
He never cut vegetables,
But regularly did the same with a life..

He hated anything chocolate,
Taste and skin both,
He shot anything,
Chocolates on a personal oath..

Coffins arrived,
Stood smiling at his handiwork,
Blood that would spill is only red,
Superiority thoughts continue to lurk..

He would also be buried in chocolate earth,
Mud does not choose,
His bones proud yet hateful,
Such thoughts and souls still at loose ..