His forearm is cooled by the sweat of his elbows.
The fire is started in his hand, in a ski mask and shell toes.
They tell him to go.
The dirt collects and clumps on his brow
along with the tears forced by the gas in the crowd.
The heat of the night cloaked in smoke,
illuminating the flames
as the spirit of the people woke.
with different volumes and tongues,
but their purpose was that of one
who collectively refused to run.
The demon on his shoulder is the angel in his eyes
as justice through death. Let the prayer of the rebellious rise:
Who hath forsaken me,
Hallowed be thy name.
I stand here,
Yet, no more patiently,
Until I feel no pain.
Give me this day
Of my sin,
As I kill flesh