The Suit Of Hatred

Generations of hatred passed on like
hand-me-downs
An old suit out dated, but left to
hand around.

Possessing characteristics of it's owner
long ago
It hangs hidden in the closet so no one
will ever know.

In it's pocket beats the heart of a gold
watch keeping time
Of the days and ways of slavery that the
world has left behind.

Although the threads now ravel and it's
color fades from age
It remains hidden it the closet where it's
hatred turns to rage.

by Barbara Langford

Other poems of BARBARA LANGFORD (2)

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