Air is not everywhere,
Respect the suspect even if its the president or the poor resident in the slums,
With fear and adrenaline running down his nerves,
His feet trying to out run a bullet
But his freedom he deserves, to fly like the birds and the bees, to play like boys and the girls, to swim like fish and the seals.
“I am not my tribe” he says,
“I just wanna be alive” he cries.
No one gets blue, when he is shot with no clue,
It’s the shoot to kill order,
The order of the day but bullets don’t sleep either,
In the morning you flinch when your sleepy eyes set themselves upon his lifeless corpse, but no one cares,
The flies try in vain to wake him up
Only the sky decides to cry, for the lost soul.
Ode to the lost soul.