Blood on the curb,

Body breathless, lifeless, careless

Ashes burnt around him tears build an ocean

brother, father, husband, friend

Gone.

An ounce in his pocket,

a tear on his cheek wiped away by the wind,

Crowded street, on lookers to the destruction,

Labeled as nothing more than another statistic,

A story that never gets told.

Great minds put together a reason,

Was it drugs, gangs, to make a point,

No one ever suggests that it was just a cold, dead, heartless murder.

If he was white, rich, and well known would the story be told?

Violence in the streets,

Blood spilled in a war,

And yet still the only thing they see,

Is the color he breeds,

The life he did not want, the mark of a killer he never wanted to be. 

Gone.