At twilight
The moon shines bright.
A loud outcry.
They remain spry.
At dusk
Remains the husk.
The bright lights fade,
Soon follows the tirade.
For at twilight
the black man’s plight,
had never felt as light.
He sought consort,
and received comfort.
But at dusk
Stripped of his tusk.
The smell of musk.
The facade waned.
There he laid; maimed.
At the mercy of a trend.
He is left to defend.
If only the light,
Always shone as bright