I paint the American skies in many different hues, patriotic color palettes.
My black history complements the insulting reds, white lies, and drowning blues.
She visits the art gallery, fearful that she’s not a masterpiece worthy of being shown.
So she sows the sadness of her ancestry into a tiara, her headband crowning blues.
The soil has nutrients to grow the green offspring of greed, faces of dead man plants.
The chlorophyll has never been more yellow, lacking the brand accounting blues.
On bended knee, his mother sends prayers to the angels that govern the gray clouds.
But white man’s religion stifles her requests, the homeland denouncing blues.
You’re a tall one, Bryan, a tower founded on unfinished works. When you’re head touches
the heavens, tell the Lord “this is a holy view, the grand surrounding blues.”
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