Slave Marching

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And these people walk, tread, heave on
Dragging their feet like dead limbs
Eyes scraping the scarred earth
Unwilling to search the sky
-Grey and dusted with day old smoke-
For bitter optimism.
Thin rings of red flesh
Making contemptible bands around their wrist that
Are connected to rusted chains that
Are connected to the flesh of those behind and in front of them that
Thump feet exhausting a beat
Heard in the heart and soul
Making its own dim, deep hole.





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