In the stark divide of black and white,
where the shadows stretch long and silent,
the night breathes uneasily,
a depiction of justice and prejudice.

On one side, a canvas of white—
bright, unblemished, where every action
is a question, every motive
a whisper of innocence.

On the other, black—
deep, impenetrable,
where every shadow
is a specter of suspicion,
and every breath
a potential threat.

The siren’s cry pierces,
a piercing echo in a landscape
painted in the tones of bias,
where judgments are made
with the stroke of a brush
heavy with unseen weights

splitting the night like a blade.

Blue lights, sharp against the pavement,
cut through the black.
But the black is more than the night—
it is a shadow cast over a body,
skin worn like a target
in a world where white means safety
and black means threat.

White officers gleam in the dark,
authority dripping from their belts,
from the stiff edges of their badges.
They see the black
in a man's eyes, in his stance,
in the way his hands move, too quickly,
too slow—
anything is too much
when black skin breathes near power.

The divide is more than color;
it’s a divide in perception,
a chasm carved from history’s hand,
etched into the very marrow of the night.

White is the presumption of innocence,
a clean slate, a second chance.
But black is judged before it speaks,
painted with suspicion,
guilty by presence,
by the fear written into the bones
of those who wear white
as if it makes them whole.

In the glare of the streetlight,
truth blurs at the edges,
replaced by the stark contrast
of a world seen through filters
of fear and assumption.

No words spoken here can strip away
the unspoken bias, the learned response—
black equals danger, white equals order.
And yet, we walk through these streets
bleeding colors we didn’t choose,
hoping one day the light will fall
evenly
on us all.

The colors of the night,
black and white,
do not merely separate,
but illuminate
the unseen line of bias
that stains the balance of justice.