Magical Racism

I stare into the eyes of the light,
Observing the wave about to enter my space.
He walks in with his weight supported on the extension of his work,
A giant man with dark complexion, with hands made of gold,
With eyes staring into the cloud that bears shade on your grounds.
He is ready to sing his truth and display his life,
Beaming as if everything will soon be resolved. 

Little did I know,
His heartbeat with a rhythm so irregular,
A conductor could not straighten it out.
His legs were full of oceans,
His vessels were as stiff as his gait.
His light dwindled like a patio at night,
His garden suffered from demolition and drought. 

But he seeks solutions.
His partner wonders if there is magic to clear a path,
A key that can open a door,
Maybe some stairs to get to the top floor.
My eyes stare back at the light,
For I have no magic daylight, no resolution to their famine,
No ease for their never-ending storm. 

The two live in a dark place.
It distributes stock to those with cattle,
Favors those who have pots at the end of technicolor arches,
Worships those with eggshells for skin,
Gives life to those who have identities written in fancy ink.

In this world, the two live from what they can,
Yet they do not have what they need:
They do not own expensive paper framed in distinguished wood,
They do not grow trees that bear synthetic greens,
They do not lack the bodies that eat their natural bronze. 

The steering wizards possess locksmith abilities
To break barriers to opportunity:
Vouchers for temporary gains,
Prolonged roads to enhance their souls.
Yet access to the wizards is scarce.
In a different place, in a different time,
They would be hero’s day and night
But until that time, until that day,
This sentence will be served in every way.