You tried to bury us
in your snowstorm war
when your
kin was in need of assistance
and we were just minding our business.
But it became your mission
to make us the villain
to your hero in
the narrative you pushed.

Incarceration across the nation
if our pigmentation
is out of favor.

Fathers falling from the streets
fade in their baby's memories.
All grace taken from our captured kings.

And the child's next in line.
You say with education he'll make it
but your stance says otherwise
when you stand outside
ready to grab his hand and guide
him down the pipe
with twenty-five to life.

But now your chains
are unable
to wash us away.
So you've opened the gates,
letting your bullets fall
heavy as rain on our heads.
Death spreads.

Assassination across the nation
because our pigmentation
is out of favor.