Frederick Douglàss

The shadow of a finger moves through a dream that passes through angels with black wings assembled like numbers on a clock, their eyes are opened by slumbering echoes of chains and locks. The legacy of Frederick Douglass remains, fists must rise with the ghost of George Floyd to interrupt the finger that will rewind the clock of racial consciousness. Frederick Douglases words breathe through pages of books. Atlanta graves of murdered children, Ku Klux clan chandeliers. Winds return like books to streets, crevices, forests, collapsing mountains grieve. Between launch and impact angels reenact the lives of slaves as bullet kills Martin Luther King. Divine waters of heavens birthing pool in the eyes of an unborn child to find different coloured versions of progeny, Douglass walks arm in arm across water with incarnations. The moon fades in a raven's eyes as it gazes upon a child in the ghetto who doesn't see the snowman he has built, crying. History dissolves in propagandas cup as polemicists trample the earth to produce their wine. They claim to provide with great insight the flight for black wings to raise arks frozen in ice.