Night's unencumbered quietness

with rains echoing through the spouts

cloaks the awareness of a deepening rite

encircling flowers, trees and mouse

The renewing of flowered-fields

in the dark-time of the sun's rest

placing surprises beneath our window-sills

to be relished whene're we wake

What a wonder-play at nature's hand

games of cyclic Spring-time glee

movements when Time puts Day to bed

and Eros re-seeds the night

I see through what you see

yet beyond what your eyes conceive

I see history repeat

I see tales told beneath tears

I see despair on front page rags

I see faces caught in  unflattering pose

I see Americas hidden despicability

racism arising twisting you and me

Perhaps I'm blind and over-sensitive

perhaps I'm emotional and beat

 perhaps I 'm a perhapsible freak

submerged in illusory dreams

perhaps, perhaps...

but history is red with the excuse of justice

and my people are buried neath the excesses of excuses

I'm one lone voice anguishing at what I see

with death as the picture that describes it best

That's what I see

If death doesn't get you, something else will.