They called racism a work of art

I've seen blood dripping from the willows. 

Seen it rolling in drops down the cheek
of a young girl,  not long in her adolescence. 

The confusion was the worst part. She 
didn't know why she was dying. Alone. 
The bloody grass beneath a lost friend 
of comfort.

But the white man knew. As he pulled up. his trousers,  a savage grin on his face
as he rubbed her agony over and over...

She lays. Fragile. A heart now gone. A 
beautiful life now stolen. 

The sun sets as the man walks off. 
He is thinking about his wife and kids. 

His other thought is how he put just 
another slave where she belonged. 

A butterfly glides through the willows today. 
It floats and lands on the outstretched
hand of a dead girl. 

It looks towards her face. Another river 
running red. Another of God's
master works removed from life's rhythm.