His burdened body riddled,
punctured with bullet holes like the result of an incompetent little kid who couldn’t get the three holes in his paper right.
The smoke from the gun was his soul evaporating into history as “just another” black body dead at the mercy of one of our supposed protectors.
Let nature grow over those voids.
His mother’s frail hands run over them like Braille.
unable to see and comprehend the hate and fear behind this irrational act.
But, they ran.
Because they knew.
Let his mother’s tears water those holes.
The fears he couldn’t share dissipated in thick air.
“How could you not show remorse?”
A mother just lost her son to your senseless kill.
And you’re the one to blame.
Even though you “claim” that you mistook your aim.”
Saying their name will not bring them back.
But, I understand speaking power into thick air after the smoke clears.
Saying their name reminds you that they were black.