Ballot With a Bruise
Ballot with a Bruise
The flag has learned new tricks:
how to knot itself into a blindfold,
how to whisper orders through its stitching,
how to look like shelter while it sharpens its teeth.
The podium spits static and commandments.
The crowd is fed a diet of ghosts and grievances,
red hats blooming like warning labels
on every vacant skull.
He wants the streets to break first.
He wants glass to answer back,
wants fire to sign his pardon,
wants the word riot to bloom in every mouth
so he can crown himself the undertaker of calendars,
cancel tomorrow with a pen dipped in panic.
Do not give him the footage he prays for.
Our anger is a river with memory.
It knows the long way around the dam.
It knows how empires drown without a splash.
We will not become the alibi.
We will not swing the hammer that builds the cage.
We will not make martyrs out of men
who only know how to lose.
Let his cameras starve.
Let the streets stay clean enough to indict him.
Let silence gather its witnesses.
We sharpen ballots instead of knives.
We practice patience like a weapon that refuses blood.
We keep our hands open —
not empty, not raised,
but ready to hold the future
when it finally slips out of his grasp,
sweaty and shaking,
still breathing.
-----
I would love to know what you thought about this piece.
Please consider leaving a comment.
Comments
Post a Comment