America was never a monarchy, yet we still had a King.
The man had no crown and was beaten and tossed aside.
With bruises from head to toe they act as portals to let the pain be seen.
As every color swirls into one as a sign of what happens when we stand divided.
Rev. King tells us to keep on, but I don’t know if my shoes can take it any longer.
My shoes share bruises similar to my own, stained, ripped, and worn down,
But I have noticed as my shoes get weaker, the crowds get bigger and stronger.
Our arms are locked with the man’s beside us, rather than pointed at a human.
We stand as soldiers who refuse to be unheard as we gather in monumental crowds.
Why’d it take a King without a crown to fall, for our country to wake from their dream and see his.