You strung him up
With a bad name
And you’ll have him hanged.
Beneath choked spurted breaths
He whistles his defense
But cannot clear himself
As accusation squeezes tight on his throat
And he’s in the throes of life and death.
Is there a chance he will be heard
Over the voice of the crowd
Rolling his name like phlegm on their tongues
and spitting with disgust?
As they throw and wring their fists
All their thumbs pointing down.
Is there a chance he will be heard?
You strung him up with a bad name
You’ll have him hanged without the benefit of the doubt.
He is wheezing and coughing through your noose
Choked and loosing his breath.
By epileptic gestures begging for a chance to clear himself.
Just before you kick the bucket from under his feet
Can he make you see that
It’s not him the crowd have something against
It’s just a name.
©Tee Akindele, (http://facebook.com/EverydayPoetry)