A neighborhood sliced with invisible borders. A Jamaican territory and a Trinidadian one. No conflict resides among the two nationalities, but then again no aid does either. An urban island ran on testimony and intimidation. A 15-year-old's lie spurns a cyclone that tears a son from a mother, a brother from a brother, and innocent man from a few decades of freedom.
Law enforcement has an unreachable quota. Their presidents and governors have enlisted them in a crusade on crime. This holy war equips its soldiers with blinders and psychological torture. Truth becomes relative, and black faces become potentials. Colin is a victim of this indiscriminate reaping.
Walking home with a newly patched up television for his ma, his trajectory shoves sideways. A day meant to restore a brief rupture with his mother turns into an incriminating sinkhole. A cheek pressed to a private Cadillac and wrists wrapped in metallic hoops, circular and compete.
Fear of violence begets organized violence. Violence from uniforms and ties. Assaults on innocent characters and prison beatings from extended calls home. Cruelty becomes normalized, and a morality of unwarranted suppression gains political popularity.
Times are sure to change, but only gradually and with the help of tortured souls. People who abandon all comforts of freedom in hopes of acquitting prisoners who rest in cells. Their bars are fashioned out of lies, and pleas fall of deaf ears just because someone's words were "convincing enough" a few dozen years ago.
The twirling of clocks begins to laugh. Manically chirping a lamentation detailing the harsh ways of chance. A photo, an index finger, and a terrified foreigner, these are the elements of a stolen life. But they are not. Government agendas, police aggression, and entropy are the real executioners. Freedom is expendable to the underrepresented.
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