Of fear, of pain we cry,
pointing fingers at anything, anyone,
except the mirror’s face:
the leaders,
the half-forgotten dead,
the teenager remaining ignorant.
The fires, the blood—
so much of it—
spilled together,
none of it on our hands.
what belongs there—
food, Money, Comfort—
cannot be shared with those without.
We stare at this hunger, this poverty,
with full hands locked in vaults,
screaming that because of suffering,
there cannot be God.
Of laughter, of smiles,
we whisper;
unless, of course,
another’s light is—seems—brighter than our own.
In bullet proof glass we keep them,
next to plaques of lies
we still must tell even now.
our accomplishments in bold trophy cases,
demanding grudging compliments.
Our x-rays we hide in musty cells with long-lost keys.
the lock is picked by lurking jackals,
embellishments are forced on rotting skeletons.
Of this I speak with needle-struck eyes and flame-licked hands.
with a small number piercing a door,
avoided by a people hidden behind nooses,
camouflaged as silk ties
with their army of frightened sheep.
We run against highway’s flow,
fighting boxer-glove laws
and knife edged hate.
We call for arms,
but only butterfly screams reach the waiting ears,
sashed beneath a tide of hyena undertones.
Doing battle with love-laced pens
snd composition streaked pages.
Statues of men bar the way
and we make another.
With beggars hearts,
and Samaritans hands,
we, the others, see your ways
and deny you.
