On top of his victim

The men, they took it all from me,
they took it savegely hard and fast,
but in their haste they let me free.
The white men watch a-top their mast.

The desire to control, in them it runs,
To dominate their slaves, their only wish.
Under the glare of the midday sun
they try to assert but nothing they accomplish.

The first time, sneaky, they got me
but never again will they they touch,
the darkest flesh supposedly free.
They took my body but left too much.

Now I approach to remove that smirk,
the man upon his victim, gloating superiority.
The axe behind my back waiting to work
I spring forward wanting to keep my soul free.

The axe cleaves the air, swinging hard,
hitting his head, splitting brain and bone,
flying in globs, splatters and shards,
the fat body landing upon the grassy loam.

The man is dead, I am once more in control,
from my hands I wipe his blood,
not wanting to pollute my soul.
My revenge has rained in a flood.