Trodden

I pick the path of poison
The treason, the reason for applying ointments
to the backs of roiling prison inmates boiling
in shack-cages posing like pistols smoking
and runaway desires clamber to sting, annoying
Where young black males meet Robert Bales
impaled on a battlefield for the most recent meal
of skittles, bigotry, and white-flight appeal
The path of derogatory, intense auditories
bomb blasted teenage bodies rotting under
acid-wash hoodies and concealing hormone floodings
In phone-call nudgings to their loved ones coming
before the final blast, where all that's passed becomes past
and the question on everyone's mind is not why
but how, after the fact, did a monster's punishment
get redacted and how justice got lapped away
like puddles of steaming urine on a sunny day
drinking the sunshine wine, gulping down brine and all
hoping that the next call is a check up, not a massacre
in the making, hoping that divides are breaking
instead of strengthening
hoping against all odds that connections are quickening
but knowing they're weakening

the path of poison
Where what you know is the opposite
of what you're hoping