No more impassioned pleas of poetry
to pour into the ears of poisoned people.
Fattened snakes, they peer through narrow slits
for more morsels than they can consume.
They can’t hear their vomit splatter on
the opulence they claim to own,
luxuriating in their greed
though they rot the same as street urchins.
The clashing of cultures and colors
consume the country.
The passion of misguided zealots
the passion of misguided fools,
though they have
more in common than not.
The poets read to rooms bereft of thought and innocence.
The writer’s craft crashes,
crushed by corporate creeds of false benevolence,
revealing itself a malevolent presence sitting on
the writer’s hand.
We are blind to the irony of a gated community,
and when there’s no one left to bear the blame,
we will hurl each other out to be first in a
wasteland of liberty.
Our words will be the legacy of our spirit’s journey.
The words we leave behind will be the journals
of our departed souls.
For now, for better, for worse,
for a future we won’t see,
we write in the darkness,
ever moving toward the light.