Remember the stories that we told?
About the slaves we bought and sold
In the land of the free and home of the brave
There once lived an old man dying as a slave

His hands were blistered and bloody from crop
Worked all day long until told he could stop
His body was beaten and his spirit was torn
Everyday he wished he had never been born

Living with a crooked back and a dust-filled lung
Prayed for a drop of water to cool his dry tongue
He was waiting for his day to finally be killed
So he could save his soul from this damned field

With no Underground Railroad near this ground
We thought our slaves would always be around
We never saw it coming, as is usually the case
Our smiles quickly faded away from our face

The slave had enough and got even one day
He held us at gunpoint and said, “Do what I say!”
He demanded all our money and then drew a knife
As he shot and stabbed us, he extinguished our life

The sun sets and the shadows begin to burn
You try and move on but the pages won’t turn
The silence of death won’t be broken
Until a word of truth has been spoken

Tomorrow the sun comes back for one more rise
Slavery is still painful in the memories of our eyes
We always wondered what became of the slave
We live forever with the shame, deep in our grave.

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A poem | by Jason S. Sullivan, 12-19-19