The Abolitionist's Sleeping Bag
Manacles are forged in minds no more,
controlled by the rich and worn by the poor.
Those that are rich, are still rats in the race,
with no end in sight, regardless of haste.
Blocks of liberty form each working day,
Five in each week, in exchange for a wage.
In overalls and name tags, suits and ties,
in uniforms and hairnets, side by side,
we snatch at the paper marked by the queen,
our lives ruled by numbers on plastic screens.
Freedom lies not, in the pursuit of gold,
content is not bought; it’s lost, but not sold.
The homeless that beg for that which we have,
are anti—heroes of our, Amistad.
(2012)
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