Halls of toil
sear landscapes
suppress republic
their indentured naiveté
they struggle and try against contemptuous waves
breaking upon the backs of a tired people.
In chains. In chains. In chains.
Hope as water does not touch
parched throats coughing out endless deserts.
Riders, bleached white as whale-bone in the sun
their midday hour stands.
And the clock does not tick,
but crashes in silence across the bow
of a steady ship
bearing fruit for few on the backs of many.
What is lost
when looking into broken mirrors?
We, marred by perception, mocked by injustice, fortified by abuse
our souls bend and misshape.
If to put aside our judgment,
forget who we are -
gray clouds
rain
good to evil
then to nothing -
existence is fragmented,
ourselves wiped and gone.
Hearts feel no pain
having been worked from us.
The oppressor unwittingly shackled through shackles placed
we find ourselves
no longer in halls of toil.