Weary image of a clay cast.
Once moist now aged and sun caked,
with lines to tell the searing tale.
Mop toped, blood specked –
Mattered symptoms of another’s hate,
another’s greed.
Eye’s cast with self-doubt,
as smothered shame sees soiled hands
rise -
palms up, fingers cupped.
[Get a job.
Why not just crawl
down and die.]
Sockets glint as lips split,
a thoughtful smile.
Tried that door, wouldn’t open.
Soundless defiance, sun blessed -
an old man at his best.
Watch as he turns away
his back to the locked room,
raises a soiled hand.
[Poverty]
‘What does it mean?’ -
Asks the sparkled crusted girl.
Sun kissed with chest fixed,
Wire cotton shelled.
Steal subtly encases the un-bloomed peach,
so tiresomely wrapped in insecurities -
Omits the stink of fear.
Doesn’t know answers to questions,
no one does.
Lowers hand,
unconsciously.
Shakes it, palm flat -
Fingers spread.
- ‘Poor people.’
Claims the tweed clasped,
arrogant blown educator of wrongs –
laughably never judged.
Halts motion,
relaxes and moves
hand downward –
slips into an ink stained pocket.
Heard by our land tied down by fences,
dressed in scared lines flecked with blood –
Such hate sunken crevasses.
Watched by people,
firmly set in hardened pools of crimson earth,
feet supported by her crumbled features.
Feel their eyes shift now cast downwards –
All raise a soiled hand.
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