Your bones are shackles that will continue bonding to foreign frames

These marches hold the rhythm of a revolution but the harmony of a sinking conviction

Spectrums range from what you once knew to what you will never, and all else is lost in translation

Between the lips of lady liberty slip the secrets you sold to chance

The smell of freedom is church bells and fresh cut grass in July

Let the stars and stripes reach the lining of your stomach and confess what your blood cannot absolve

Shatter into fifty and shower in a smattered constellation of intoxicating indifference

Humble before the beat and pull; conjure what brought you worlds away, ways away

It is nothing more than loose footing on packed soil that trembles where your lungs can’t go

There is no lightning; witness the thunder

ARTWORK: John Hayden. Joker. 2015. Polyester. L’Orangerie, Louisville.

Shayla Lawson