It’s rage, color, and quiet.
It’s emotion, imagery, and sound.
It’s the movement of a breath-taking riot.
It’s the goal of so very many found.

It’s a low moan coming from one’s slow-beating heart.
It’s a unique, idiosyncratic, and respected piece of art.

It’s a rip in the nightly sky we so heroically stand by.
It’s a world of color, pigment, and hue blending in a cry.

It’s a mother’s first child being mocked.
It’s a father’s one and only prayer.
It’s the preacher’s eternal, everlasting shock.
It’s the people’s unity and forever care.

It’s black, no, it’s white.
It’s tan, no, it’s pale.
It’s the color in our near sight.
It’s of colors with a tale.

It’s a tale like no other.
It’s of a beauty mixed with a peace.
It’s a tale with a lover.
It’s of a love rubbed bare on fleece.

It’s a history of bitter happiness and disgust.
It’s a time twist of standing, falling, and brushing off rust.

It’s a different world, as we now know it, beaming.
It’s one man or one woman not sleeping, but dreaming.

It’s a time we now celebrate.
It’s a time we now cherish.
For our freedom no longer we must wait.
Civil rights, a movement that shall never perish.