THE RACE

Breathing today's centuries old air, there's no relief. The suffocating masses left us nothing but remnants of the old south's battlefield by ancient plantations gathering.
This is a time of assemblers, a time of speeches, a time of marching towards a Verelse of races.
ONCE AGAIN!
Nothing new, nothing resolved.
It's never ever really over.
It's never ever decisive.
It's never ever today but redo of the world's old order.

The crayon colors do not satisfy in this race towards insisting equality.
White should not be white. Black cannot be black.

My crayon box of generators holds bits of combinative.
Black is no longer just black. White is no longer just white. Yellow is no longer yellow. Those colors are no longer politically correct.
When set under earth's burning sun all melting into the ground below none become masters of a winning race.