At a time we should be approaching utopia,
We find ourselves sliding into dystopia.
We should be at the pinnacle of society,
Yet, an elite group—not even a majority—
is pulling us down into the mire
where human life is merely a commodity.
The luxury of the top tier
tramples the rights of the masses.
We exist under the jackboots
of their thug army, the enforcement arm
of ignorance crowned as leadership.
Falling in line,
or falling under the wheels of the machine,
raising a generation
with no taste of freedom in their memories.
The children learn the rhythm of the gears,
mistaking the humming for a lullaby.
The machine demands silence,
total and absolute—
purchased by the blood
of those resisting.
They never learn the taste of salt,
of tears born of rebellion,
or how quickly favor turns.
But iron grows brittle
under the cold of its own soul.
When the gears finally seize,
the only thing left
will be the weight
of the ghosts
we were told to forget.
© Ron Simpson Jr.
No comments:
Post a Comment