Spirits loom on the marsh,
as if anchored to their deathly end,
cast of colour, deplored and drowned,
slaves who could breathe no more;
whipped and beaten,
humiliated and forsaken,
unholy acts perpetrated,
children birthed, from demons.
They stand like slivers of burned life,
silent and motionless,
like tombstones to renounce their lives,
sorely treated and taken;
there must be hundreds of them,
shadows dark and restless,
for all they endured in sufferance,
in mindless white hypocrisy.
As sun reaches into a farewell night,
these shadows slowly fade,
their bones the meat of the muddy marsh,
their silent screams hovering;
and here there is no birdsong,
silence alone greets the day,
in reverence to the deathly knell
that never goes away.
Tis sadness that speaks in whispers,
when cruelty was beyond belief,
when colour was deemed a judgement,
by lesser human beings;
and never will death be so remembered,
when slavery was the mark of loveless life,
and evil writhed in perpetuity,
for pleasured unholy strife.
Tony DeLorger © 2017