Please, pass the time
and show me what
calm waters feel like.
Orderly; in order. To be. Alive.
Where mourned hearts are nourished.
The old blue yonder thrives.
A poor man’s paradise
is only the sunset;
the possibility of a sunrise
and traveling among the hilltop of humanity.
Awoken by the early sound
of dirt printed hands and tired eyes.
The grains beneath his lids
enough to cement every crevice
in the pavement of the suffering.
Seeking fulfillment through
while he, he remains
bombarded with odd-man jobs
and the hope of another tomorrow.
Forced to lick his bloodied fingertips
like a starving beastly bat,
only witnessed in darkness,
When the skies are pale black
burdened by the weight of all the others’ sorrow.
And they, they suckling from the chests
of weeping pleading mothers.
Sitting on their self-constructed thrones
derived from the bones of another.
A pale grimace stamped on their vacant faces.
The poor, poor man; scavenging for their remainings.