Prose Poem: Sunshowers

Our masters have sold us.

Our value to them has been liquidated, and the false sense of security found in endless hours of work, can never be relived. Our domain was pitiful, but it was our own. We let ourselves believe that for a time.

In the end, we knew this day could come. We knew the power of these men, no kin or countrymen to us. We knew very well they could reach deep down into us day after day and pull out whatever they wanted. They could pull work from our hands, breaking from our bones, submission from our souls. They could not take our souls themselves, but they could and can and will and did move them from place to place as easily as paper dolls.

We are complicit. Some of us resist. Our cries are hushed with bullets and mistrust seen among the ranks. We pack up our poverty and our courage, and fall in line. We do not know who is waiting for us. We only know we’ve been betrayed and ripped from the type of comfort that deceives.

And still, we long to believe. We are Americans. Even we are addicted to hope. We are so young. Enough even to forget sometimes that we are not our own.

If we are to be free, we must become something else. We must synthesize these weary minds into alkaline pools. We must blend together and bravely take an unfamiliar shape. We must swiftly rise into the heavens and rain down our truth like sun showers in May.

We must become ghosts, who haunt our fellow man even after we are gone. We must extend beyond our own bodies, expanding into every space of the world, so that nothing is invisible, nothing is owned, and everything can be touched again for the very first time.

Even masters have masters: greed, malice, ignorance, and narcissism. So to set them and us free, we must wrap up the masters who sold us in a vapor, overwhelm them with the truth, help them stumble down from the auction blocks, and sell them all back to themselves.

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