Each day, performing his rounds
Collecting what he can
He has taken to a pole with a view of it all
He climbs it perching on the top
Tail balances him as he turns west
then holds him steady as he points south
Every day in early afternoon
He'll be there
Like a painter surveying the scene
or the poet in meditation
We sit too lofty & we all know it
feeding on manufactured flesh
treading on fields of of silk
with boots of steel.
We chain, we beat into submission
& squeeze out the last cells of dignity
for our entertainment.
You cannot tell me the eyes are not windows
The heart is but flesh & dreams are ours only.
No comments:
Post a Comment