The scepter grows cold in the woman’s hand. Her forearm drops and the item dismantles onto the wooden floor. The panel of plywood coils up and the uniformity of the floor now needs remodeling. But all the more, she has made a statement. The pinnacle of her salvation made with one fist lifted and the other dropping the weapon that would be a protective barrier from foe to victor. She stands over him mustering the courage not to shovel the groove of steel up into his eyes for him to never be able to see the hurt from his own attrition. He’s being proctored for the very moment that made him a thug. Even now he puckers his lips upon the envelope of white skin has been plastered with a stamp of bigotry that cannot last forever. This type of act will expire and the menace of lyrical blood will accent the path of his next four years. He will trail the land that will not allow him to step backwards. He has won, so he thinks, but he cowers behind the lottery of unfinished business. The woman stands exemplary of a movement started by the mother Teresa’s and Rosa Parks’ of yesterday’s making sure that the oil for the lamp was plenty for those marching into the future. “Savage” she calls him and walks out with her boots tearing through the atrophied wood and bending it over his remnant body. She closes the door behind him with the key landing on his red tie. Her breath ascends in a gassy, visible cloud and her chest expands with the strength to move on.


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