this poem speaks of apology
it waits for the perfect hour of mourning
bows its head
humming lyrics of regret
under its breath

this poem admits that
sometimes we go too far to prove our points
and usually in the wrong direction
think of caskets we unearth so conveniently
the history students have become grave robbers
sinking our bold fingers
into our heroes
freshly packed loam
sifting through ashes and bone
searching for yet another limb of our legacy
to exploit
ravens and sanity hover overhead
telegraphing disapproval on wind-speak
if we put down our shovels
we might hear the sound of
spirits being aborted
vacuumed out of the universal womb
they were returning to
their after-life has been put on hold
as their skeletons are manipulated
their opinions are articulated
by us -
our heroes are tired
the way we drop their names like bombs
exploding ground
this graveyard ain't never gonna have peace
all those years alive
spent using their lives as leverage
for a greater cause
for our cause
don't our heroes deserve silence?
respect in the least
we gotta let our heroes sleep
the skulls of malcolm, martin, and the rest
carried around on parade
serves no greater purpose
so let them fulfill their respective prophesies
let them live their own deaths
it will be for the best
so give our heroes a rest
relinquish this hallowed ground
and return to the living
instead of speaking to the great beyond
speak to the breathing

this poem urges you
to come walk with us
there is an entire ghetto
multiplied to the tenth power
that needs you -
not the names of deceased heroes
but living warriors armed with
the knowledge,
the hope,
the strength,
living warriors armed with
the spirit,
the vision,
the voice,
to breathe life into our broken homes
and finish what our heroes started.