Promised Land
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
So unphased by deprivity,
a carefully laid out section 8 society,
where mortar and brick,
become soil and stick,
to a rhythm of tock and tick.
Stitching together the rips and tears,
where the front door's hinge fell off,
a widening hole near the basment stairs,
that all lead downhill,
magnifying glasses in search of the anthill.
Basking in the sun,
asking anyone...of us for directions to something else,
to one thing of redeeming beauty and health.
Not this razor wire,
atop these chain-link fences,
not these barrel fires,
that light up faces only when they speak in past tenses.
Where's the mending,
where the truth was bent,
there's the rule bending,
there, under the roof, where these lives were swept.
Commanding appreciation and gratitude,
for freeing slaves in exchange for lives of endentured servitude,
pull off the blinders and see the entire width,
we are little more than toy winders who wrap up life tightly to be sold as an expensive gift.
Collect culture and arrogance,
trading torture and irrelevance,
whole neighborhoods of Jane and John Does,
communities where not a single voice arose.
Above the murmur of the white noise,
intended to drown out any fight that might be left in one that America cannot employ.
No use to feed, or obligation to clothe,
anxiety of separation freed us to loathe,
any being of such little worth,
whose death comes as insignificant as their birth.
At least for these front stoops and backstreets,
the only one carrying them to the promised land... their own tired feet.
a carefully laid out section 8 society,
where mortar and brick,
become soil and stick,
to a rhythm of tock and tick.
Stitching together the rips and tears,
where the front door's hinge fell off,
a widening hole near the basment stairs,
that all lead downhill,
magnifying glasses in search of the anthill.
Basking in the sun,
asking anyone...of us for directions to something else,
to one thing of redeeming beauty and health.
Not this razor wire,
atop these chain-link fences,
not these barrel fires,
that light up faces only when they speak in past tenses.
Where's the mending,
where the truth was bent,
there's the rule bending,
there, under the roof, where these lives were swept.
Commanding appreciation and gratitude,
for freeing slaves in exchange for lives of endentured servitude,
pull off the blinders and see the entire width,
we are little more than toy winders who wrap up life tightly to be sold as an expensive gift.
Collect culture and arrogance,
trading torture and irrelevance,
whole neighborhoods of Jane and John Does,
communities where not a single voice arose.
Above the murmur of the white noise,
intended to drown out any fight that might be left in one that America cannot employ.
No use to feed, or obligation to clothe,
anxiety of separation freed us to loathe,
any being of such little worth,
whose death comes as insignificant as their birth.
At least for these front stoops and backstreets,
the only one carrying them to the promised land... their own tired feet.