He didn't speak a word.
His ragged breath just slowed.
Then stopped.
What did he see
as gazed up at the sky?
The gray Los Angeles haze?
Or an angel's welcoming arms.
As his heart tried to beat
just a few more times,
already fading in defeat
by the gangbanger's knife,
was he thinking about
the revolution or his
toddling son?
Then he was gone.
I saw the life pass
from his eyes
and felt the warmth
and wetness where
I knelt in his blood.
Already in the moment
that I rose wobbly to my feet,
it grew cold and sticky
on my hands and jeans.
The Party had a martyr
but the angels know the truth.
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