can’t carry the right tune.
captured melodies hang dead
like strange fruit
as remixed rendition of spirituals,
drums out-rapped by white piano keys.
solipsistic tonsils aren’t attuned
to the souls for whom they claim to sing:
those who compose their own choruses
drowned in sweaty silence
attached to veiled minds, muted
by ventriloquial mouths of history
books chomping off pieces of the truth
sheet by marginalized sheet.
conquering tongues bemoan
an envied pain
soundtracked by sacrilegious symphonies
unnatural to the landscape
of their imperial minds.
Clamor 