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Hoods of the Spineless Drivel | A Poem by Ken Allan Dronsfield

Whips of black spatter dark skin in blood
time moves on like a drunk garden slug
terror in the night, nooses swing on oak
burnt crosses hot as white hoods dance.

Land meant to grow, plant dead in rows
hallowed minds are shallow in icy piety
given no reverence or primal empathy
graceless matter to a mindless patter.

Cotton, melon and okra now planted
above the graves of the persecuted
murder at night, forgiven on Sunday
regrets be that of the spineless drivel.

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