Same salt runs, beneath a, Black Man’s skin
In borrowed blood, that clogs, his spent veins
Which ethos, squirms, in his sanctum, of sin
Why an, estranged enigma, he still, remains!

Thru the, endless age, of evolution
With borrowed, faiths, and inbred, fears
Graffiti of pity, in shades, of delusion
Refuses to fade, for, many more years!

Is a Black Man, still, what a White Man, thinks
What he made, of his being, beyond that ‘myth’
In this cherished prison, where his piety, stinks
By inertia, of his, fears’ megalith!

When the Black Man, got baptized, ‘Negro”
Why he chose, his Black Being, crucified
Lingering fossil, of a, Faux-Pharaoh
That Negro, Never Ever, Died!

© 2021 Vikas Chandra