By Aidan Romo
In the bustling, colorful night,
This city’s energy rings deaf
To me. I’m kept awake by a
Different progress from a land
Made different from an older
Ignorance. They, ghosts of Tulsa,
Faintly wail the injustice of
That day. I smell the remnants of
Their homes and lives, left as ash
Lost to the wind. As they rot away,
Stripped of freedom by little more
Than blind fear, their anguish lingers.
By the same terror, our trial to
Forget and race on is failing.
They are still here, haunting me. They
Don’t wish for their pain to remain
A secret kept among us. So,
Until we stop, until more dare
To hear them, the quiet haunting
Persists.
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