A Black boy
A black hood.
A flag behind him, choking in flames.
He does not flinch.
Does not kneel.
Does not bow for mercy this country never gave.
The fire hums what you tried to hush.
Stars fall like broken crowns.
Stripes peel back like old wounds.
Red drips like bodies in the street.
White curls into ash — promises never kept.
Blue drowns in smoke that tastes like tear gas
and prayers whispered too late.
He does not speak —
but listen.
Listen to the hush
carry the names you pretend to love but never hold.
Listen to the fire
say their names the way freedom should sound:
Breonna. Trayvon. George. Sandra. Emmett. Ahmaud.
Rodney. Michael. Eric. Fred. Atatiana. Kendrick. Tamir.
And so many more,
whose ashes hum through every street you call yours.
This requiem is not for your comfort.
This hush is not your permission slip.
This anthem is not your show.
See him —
how he stands where your flag rots:
Still whole.
Still holy.
Still too free for your hand to hold.
He is not your puppet.
He is not your savior.
He is not your holiday parade.
He is the requiem.
The hush you pretend to hear.
The match you cannot snuff out.
So let it burn.
Let the lie fold itself into another coffin.
Let the smoke hum every name you could not keep buried.
Let the Fourth of July taste like ashes in your mouth.
And know this —
He stands in the ruin you built.
Still here.
Still burning.
Still royalty you will never claim.
The audience applauds —
but he cannot hear them.
