His forearm is cooled by the sweat of his elbows.

The fire is started in his hand, in a ski mask and shell toes.

They tell him to go.

Hell no.

The dirt collects and clumps on his brow

along with the tears forced by the gas in the crowd. 

The heat of the night cloaked in smoke,

illuminating the flames

as the spirit of the people woke. 

They spoke

with different volumes and tongues,

but their purpose was that of one

who collectively refused to run.

The demon on his shoulder is the angel in his eyes

disguised

as justice through death. Let the prayer of the rebellious rise:

 

“Our father…

Who hath forsaken me,

Hallowed be thy name.

I stand here,

Yet, no more patiently,

Until I feel no pain.

Give me this day

Forgiveness

Of my sin,

As I kill flesh

And blood

Again

And

Again…

 

…amen.”