My physical appearance is as simple as black and white. What you see is who you’ve become.
I am a record that sets the tone for the rest of someone’s
life, because whether they like it or not; I am their life. It is me who decides whether they live or
die.
My internal organs are the embodiment of the lies told by
courtroom thespians, which periodically makes me a lifesaver when these flaws
are discovered before the 11th hour.
But where’s the fun in that?
I really enjoy being the decisive lie.
At times the pulse within my paragraphs enhance the sting of family
secrets or failed relationships.
My retaliation to, No Justice! No Peace! Is inconspicuous
compared to the fires burning in Ferguson, or an unoccupied cop cruiser being
capsized by justice seekers.
My sentences have stared into the eyes of the mightiest of
men. The tears I draw from their souls
makes my print worthy of bestseller status.
But there was something different – something oh so rare –
on the last day I looked into the eyes of Willie Ervin Fisher.
You see, normally my appetite for disheartenment is satiated
by the lack of a will to live. Men will
spend decades dissecting my words to no avail.
The realization of their fate is the unending feast to which I am always
receptive.
But there was hope in Fisher’s gape. As he ripped me to shreds he looked as if
what I had to say would not be the final word.
I could see his hopes for shedding the red jumpsuit for a medium custody
placement.
I felt powerless as the weight of my existence decreased as
he tore away at my deadly punctuations.
The sound of my dismantling drew the attention of his comrades, emotional
supporters.
The truths behind their pupils stirred the exclamation
within my remaining pages, then my power is restored.
I laughed as he attempted to console them. His emotional supporters knew very well that
my demise was the sound of his expiration.
The pause for a pound and some kind words gave me time to
decide which set of watery eyes would be my next “vic.”
Everyday I will be the replay of a man’s final judgment.
It’s just him and me behind the closed door, and a condemned
man has no say; only my words count.
No one knows more than the transcript.
Still Livin’
MannofStat
Copyright © 2014 by Leroy Elwood Mann
No comments:
Post a Comment