Christian

His death came in 96'.
He was a rolling stone crack baker,
His life repeatedly raped as the sentences passed by,
Lifting child hood memories that could make the Brooklyn streets seem shy,
The Friday beatings were to perfect an inmate's Sunday golf drive,
His colour often changed,
He stood at neither side of the racial divide,
A loner in all his years,
He learns he was mistaken,
But stays away of being eternally forsaken,

Cometh last September breeze he could finally awaken,
Open his eyes,
He has now no disguise,
Not anymore a cocky Caucasian,
It's poetic irony he carries the name of the son,
Tested and crucified,
He often laughs before he cries,
One more day is bliss,
He can now make it what he wants of this.