Static Mondays

Static Mondays are a hard truth

A riot turned holy in the children’s eyes

A systemic plan for business as usual,

A crouchy calling to the death of it all

An ordinary day

Turned messy

Turned, flip tables and diss tracks

Turned upside down

Turned dismantling

Turned risks

Turned reminder of facts

That tables should’ve never been there.

The children know

Condemned for speaking truth

For calling out who he is

For echoing what their grownups

Painted in mural of minds.

Only Hosanna could make such a mess.

The children knew he was holy

Disruption is how they defined his holiness.

The children knew before Friday

Death was already starting.

The children are familiar with death.

The children know when death angel creeps

And makes way for new life.

The children know danger

That breeds victory.

The children never cared for the tables anyway.

They look too much like system hearts.

The children watched exploitation take captive loved ones

For survival there.

The children know these tables don’t breed life,

But this Monday’s death might just do it.

The children say,

No more “No More Static Mondays”

Only Holy ones.