Gizelle Fletcher, Songs for the Voiceless

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.

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