Logical Ends to Hate
She poked her nose to the air,
As if skin color was a sin.
Or if the texture of hair,
Defined the worth within.
Vigilant to undertones,
And genetic nationality.
Wishing everyone a clone,
A cruel evil in banality.
She died,
No one cried.
Dead, arrived to the pearly gates,
And she thought all would go well. Sadly for her, it was much too late,
And St. Peter sent her right to Hell.
—GoRhyme