I bring you sweaty palms,
Dried on my Sunday best.
I bring fear and sympathy,
I will give posters drenched in permanent marker and outrage,
I know to stay silent so you may speak:
Or not at all, I will be there.
After witnessing his spit run down your face,
After watching your blood rush to carve rivers in your skin from blows and brutalities,
After any humanity I do possess, I will be there.
I will only speak when you are left voiceless,
Even then I will only say what you've said before.
You will bring mournful tears,
And tongues sharp enough to shred.
You will bring compassion laced conviction.
There is enough anger in you to char the world, and rightfully so.
I will stay to the side and chant or march.
I will stand by you as you drown out the white noise with centuries worth of outcries.