Panic flight illuminated by lines of city street lights cries out in the night,
gunned down, violent massacres an anchor weight around society’s neck.
Controlled chaos – a death here and death there, no one really stops to stare,
not for too long these days.
Own to an “It could have been me mentality.”
Party lines argue who’s to blame, but it’s never their name taking the blame.
Around we go again, either fall in line
or get left behind, or some that say,
those left as prisoners
to feel the pain of the mundane money-worship workdays
five days within each week
this rule of thumb crush under-paid slavery.
Life will be fine a mother’s soft, assuring voice sings a lullaby to a small child
cradled in her protective arms,
as bombs rain down tears of sadness full of despair.
Death clinches chests full of lifeless air washed ashore
in an unforgiving world,
moisten steps of tears weep for a small child,
swept away by fear and intolerance
a body left lifeless by destruction of hope and humanity.
On the front lines of our public execution,bare minimum-wage earners on a path
to poverty made workers rising at the sun’s shine to make
a few bucks and a dime selling our time to the world of corporate slavery
the glimpse of the crossfire hair aimed towards dissection in a unison direction.
The other side of madness that damn feeling of anxiety
rears its ugly head once again,
as coins get us to the next payday.
What feels like a global crash crushes the soul, yet the heart will always remain
Redemption only a smile away to brush back the curtains which protect us from the day’s fear.
Shall we weep upon this very stage?
Built from wooden planks made of tongue-n-groove, side-by-side,
fit so perfectly together, come together a shelter from the shit storm of life,
mostly without reason – moods change such as the seasons, growth of shelter
blooms in the spring.
Trees grow timber to set yet another stage.
Up next, the same old mess.
The first step away from the crash is always the hardest first step to take
as heads fill with confusion, spin without direction
a much-sought-after lucidity, like swarms of bees we drop to our knees
in utter disgust at the trivial pursuit of material things.
A cursor of a person defined by marginal abilities, conformist miss the mark
reaching out for a warm body in the dark.
Outstretched,bone-thin, hungry hands guide a panicked heart’s reality,
clawing for anything to hold as transparency begins to slow the memories
of past forgotten affairs.
Broken will, a fixable flaw
in the construction wheel of life engaged with awaken-eyes,
no longer blind due to deception and lies,
as another hello ends in goodbye.