"A contract is a contract, be it oral
or written, you belong to me now."
The old days when humans were cargo are found
in grave yards, with tomb stones that mimick the moon
and where an immortal bouquet of flowers bathe
in sunlight at the gate.
They say jesus comes to escort the dead,
to save the worthwhile and to liquidate the worthless.
But I wonder if that corss stained into this grave's face
realises that no man is truely good, and to only take good
means leaving (perhaps erudite) parts of yourself behind.
I wonder if the slave who ran free fell like a fly
knocked out of flight at the sight of his first mountian.
That if those who climbed into the horizon were able to
shout at their idle heaven (so right they became mute) for
robbing them of their humanity. If they felt that the
sun was crusified behind the moon, and that there was no hope
for a better tomorrow.
They worked hard, tirelessly tilling the land
until it was a green hive.
And like bees, they never stopped.
They never got the chance to taste the honey that dripped
from their sore wounds, and fed our "broke" society.
I am so sorry slave, for keeping your very nature
from you, with old, dirty, yet somehow still silver looking
chains and boney, blood-dried fingers. And I hope that I
do not need these things to be turned away from
by a god,
Who I turned away from first.
Before realising that I wasn't owed your freedom.
"A contract is a contract, be it oral or written,
We no longer belong to you."
________
Will add disclaimer later.
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