His car insides were black
His skin resembled mine
I sat in the back seat
Arms behind my back
Metal merging with skin
Hope escaping through circular
scrapes and cuts
Life dug from my bones
And freedom ripped from my throat
This is what death feels like
A return to prophesied slavery.
The parking garage is dark,
lit only by sirens that announce
the arrival of more failed soldiers of the state
Kings that bucked too wildly when they awakened
to the mental chains that surrounded them
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