Murdered sonnet
in which George Floyd loses his life
as a result of police violence
The bloated, stuck-up weight upon my neck
of white, high-handed, blubbered affluence
which with its knee imposes dominance
means I can’t breathe. My face has hit the deck,
my body’s squashed against the gutter - folk
like me belong there down through history.
His fist in pocket speaks disdain. Folk see
him snarl. His knee makes me a slave. I choke.
We’re all George Floyd, each one of us, as long
as old injustices dictate what lies in store
and hatred facts with utter scorn deflects.
He who would rule us uses fear so strong
that when our own perspectives we abhor
in our name he can kneel on people’s necks.
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