Diaspora

Spraying like spore prints across the land
our power lotus flower like made to sprout in mud
the muck of our forgotten woe separated from us
by the use of clever language that cleaves at self-worth
our jeans hang as low as our spirits as our genes cry
ancestors turning in their graves twisting double helix like
embarrassed to be a part of the present beheading
they are still lynching us for sport.

Kevon Simpson © 2015