its just dawned on me,

something which probably dawns on everyone

as soon as they meet me.

that i am the love child of the

poorest and the richest.

the poorest and the richest in

culture, faith, beauty.

the poorest and the richest in

money, money, money.

if you were to stretch me out,

melt down my brown skin

and spread me apart, i'd reach

both ends of the stick,

both sides of the story,

both eyes on the inside,

both ends of the rainbow,

like a rubber band with no give.

the hand that has the gold and the one that takes it.

one with silver and grace and love on dark skin,

one with greed and power and blood on white skin.

but what does that make me?

apart from aware of the size of the spectrum?

am i ego and death or pride and grace?

- one ancestor with the blood of another on his hands

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