by Nick Gisburne
We seize the whip, the symbol of control.
Its leather sliced submission in our backs.
Our freedom, all the centuries they stole,
Emerges, through the narrowest of cracks.
From nothing, we become the force we were,
No longer slaughtered, screaming, in the night.
Ironic that our masters now confer
The rights they ripped so swiftly from our sight.
The punishment, for us, was always death.
Brutality. Depravity. The noose.
But every victim, every stolen breath,
Is tarnished when we let our fury loose.
Rejoice, but sink your hatred in the sea.
Without the whip, forever, we are free.
