Homeless man shaking a cup
Can you imagine he was someone’s dream once?
We’ve made a wasteland and call it peace,
We’re malnutrition, but yet we feast,
Keep on ice the bodies of the unclaimed deceased
And remains in hushed increase
By you and I,
So they stack them four tombs high.
Children left to die.
And they were someone’s dream once.
We cut corners and call it tact
We leach media and call it fact-
Concrete and don’t turn back.
And that homeless man shaking his cup,
You’ve just learned not to look at.
And those badlands are blinked as the beacon of “freedom.”
& So people don’t dream anymore.
They look and see cash on the shirts on their backs
Sloth made simple
And you slip through the crack
Like a penny stepped on my single-soled
Pride & the secrets they keep of those who’ve
Suffered and sighed.
But go buy a new dress because you’re slight of hand
Of the Maker’s of a collapsing land threaded
Together that tapestry of life,
What is the imagination without substance and strife?
The youth are left to cope with their own ignorance
Sucking out of plastic green straws
Bitten at the tip like its unabashed bylaws.
And we can’t expect them to save us,
Let alone care.
Because it was our eight months that put them there….
& I doubt they’ll even dream once….