the more they make you scratch,
and sniff, at revolution through a dense pane
of glass, the more they try and censor your vision
with their broken machine, the more you will
rise like lazarus as the pilgrims come
from nazareth, to protest the execution.
tom ridge is pilate with a tiny penis,
and a big thuggish grin.
their compassion is absent
but your perseverance is felt.
mumia, your soul is like a loom
of the finest silk,
weaving tapestries of expectation
for each succeeding generation.
you write about the people like a loving father,
we view your innocence with delight;
indeed, the only gun that you ever shot
was aimed right-
at social blight.
