Advertise Here
Want to advertise here? Get started for as little as $5


A Poem by Bonnie Paige

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.
Nothing new, nothing resolved.
It's never ever really over.
It's never ever decisive.
It's never ever us 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 black. White is no longer white. Yellow is no longer yellow. Red is no longer red.
When set under earth's burning sun all melting into the ground below none become masters of one's winning race.

© 2020 Bonnie Paige

My Review

Would you like to review this Poem?
Login | Register

Request Read Request
Add to Library My Library
Subscribe Subscribe


Added on August 2, 2020
Last Updated on August 2, 2020
Tags: #2020, #Living a poets dream