Race, Religion, and Bullshit.

Naked,
standing under a tin roof,
amid countless guns,
slapped, scratched, and raped,
a Yazidi freezed.

Below the murderous skies,
in the lonely streets,
her fingers run through his streaks.
In her endless search for son's torso,
the Palestinian weeps.

November makes her nervous,
for she remembers the unforgotten.
A brother, a father, and a grandfather,
burnt alive, and rotten.
Yet the guilty of Sikhs walks free.

The hands in pocket,
were an invisible pistol.
Cop shot the the teenager,
his color was his fault.

The King's dream is still a dream.