Unspoken Truths

What mystery there is to this life
Of us black and brown?
What solemnity
In being this creature, so low to the ground
What did He intend?
When making us the footstools
Of rulers, who rule with an iron fist?
The doormats to the whims
Of bigots and thieves
Who far outnumber us
On any list
Forever threatening 
Swift and vicious penalties
Even castigation
For any resistance to the powers that be
The unrighteous ma-jor-ity
O, the myths, of equators and prox-im-ity 
And first inhabitants
We’re made to believe
We’re the chosen people
Who wandered aimlessly in the wilderness
On our way to a Promise Land
Sup-pos-edly
Meant to give us reprieve
Yet, we remain the chosen people
Who suffer the greatest wrath
The worst atrocities