Tuesday, December 13, 2016
Privilege . . .
they bake their bread on the backs of your seed . . .
and make your cities crumble . . .
they sit in black suits
with concrete dust
filtering through their teeth
sifting out your bones . . .
to make their gold . . .
it lies cold and curdled
beneath their thrones . . . imagined fires
unlit by the stillness of your heart . . .
your dreams un-mentored
are flavored with the weft of their expectations while
their road, endless and dark with shards of scorn
and yours . .. have ended
beneath the bridge of time
as it sinks into the river
of loss . . .
Posted by Wolfsong at 12/13/2016 07:43:00 PM