Ghost of a dream

The Black community
doesn't know it has passed.
Inclines to disagree, it still believes in the dream.

A freshly cut stone;
Choice FM is engraved,
Brixton born
and raised.
The spirit died in its waves.

Died in an age,
must be global to win.
Take what is pure,
and spread it thin,
spread it thin.

Bastion of black,
slowly watered down,
till it blend with the crowd.
Now safe bland sound.

The old ways have passed.
Wishful thinkers beat the corpse.

Cynics doubt the good old days
were good as they say:

The gracious bond between
similar shades of pain.
The immigrant struggle
becomes bearable in huddles.

Dodged missles aimed at faces
bananas thrown by rascists
yet diligently lifted
each other with a smile.

Mum still shows her teeth,
greeting strangers on the pave.
Just the way we do things back home,
she says.

The dichotomies be dead.
Save your mourning, instead.

Global folks, the occasional ghost.

The remains float
in watery soup.