Serenade to The Abandoned

Photography/Unknown

Photography/Unknown

With the walls painted red, he sits with his paintbrush dripping of the blood from his dying work that remains an empty vessel within his hands,

Overworked to the bone, the edges poke into his fingers as they struggle for their last breaths.

Moments slipping through like sand, the beach washes over his memory of time, parching the thirst for remembrance,

He is a dead memory in the vastness of the void that we call our galaxy.

Bleached out stars stain the sky floating above his head like the halo of a lost angel

Yet he is the most unholy out of what we define as holy, 

The pure white skin that glows brighter than the pale light filtering from our sun through the blinds on a rough summer day,

Blinding blue eyes rush past faster than the tides of the ocean, clear and strong and indigo, all the features he will never bear.

Blue and pale and white, blue and pale and white, blue and pale and white,

The mantra chants through his head each day through movie posters, local grocers and the daily news that paints his picture as a monster.

All the traits he never holds captured in one, held up to the sky to bathe in the holy light that he will never touch.

Worshiped by the world like a sinner in their last moments, crumpled on their deathbed

He prays.

He prays for a future he will never have to bear, yet Atlas passes the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Curled into himself, he cowers in fear to the world that catches him by the throat, glaring with its own two blue eyes into dark brown dirt of his own.

Idolatry dominates the Earth, a globe now transformed and humanized by the same people who dehumanize its own darker skin kind.

Brown is the new white, but only on the white 

Dreads are the new blonde hair, but only on the blonde and brunette.

Wide noses, darker eyes, transformed into the fetish of society

A fantasy only to hold in their minds, like a picky eating child throwing its scraps to the trash only to scarf down the fleeting crumbs.

Mirror mirror on the wall, who will I be today?

He whispers to the personas he masks out of the dust collecting on the culture he hides from society.

Mirror mirror on the wall, can I choose the happy pathway?

The idea of happiness, excitement, contentment are all of a foreigner in the land of his imagination waiting outside the locked gates that he fosters out of the same imagination.

Mirror mirror on the wall, will I live to stay?

The question that plague a coloured 15 year old's mind that never seems to cross the mind of the contrasting race.