by Lucretia Mccloud aka Seah Greenhorn
(poem with copyright)
To the pit!
Not ... a golden ring to aspire
yet steady steps
onto conveyor
belts
trail them
uncomprehendingly
behind
blind, pious guides.
True,
stripped men grovel;
their families cry out,
their pain--financial strain,
as they stumble, then tumble
down
tight tubes
onto
unforgiving
relentless
waves of tithes.
Not even waxed--the slide inside.
Bumped brains into muddle,
still push
to extricate
grappling hands from
back
pockets,
since life
yields bowls
of
rising dough
impossible to bake.
"Why this extra bind when my heart is not inclined?
He died, right?
To remove added pain?"
Misapplied
to drive sheep forward,
"To keep kicking against the goads
Makes it hard for you,"
whiny counterfeit comfort
for seemingly caustic complaints.
Centuries of mounting monetary mandates
bend shoulders and backs into tables.
Not fables!
Reality!
Broken mental slaves now exhaustedly crawl towards final darkness--Eternal Graves,
to escape
Vultures
circling
Sundays
anew.
Their
world
denuded.
Real
Hope--Defused.
Eyes
unfortunately
scaled
Promise
Assured
Demise,
since
Judas(s),
greedy,
their
ill-advised sheep
Despise.
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