“Where else would time take us?”
Said the man, disavowed.
The little child at his feet, wished it could see,
For with blinded eyes, it only groped,
And was seen no different
By that man.
Because, the child was poor.
A woman full of buttons to her cloak,
Garbed in elegant modesty,
Swam in the hatred from a man’s disgrace.
Her child, singing with pain, like a flute to his lips,
Her child, as well, threw arms to swim,
In the grayness of a father’s negligence,
Because her man was the blind one.
“Where is there a future, for me, and for my little one?”
Cried the feeble woman, disowned.
She broke against his own horrors,
The ones, the crafted ones, by his hands soaked in grime.
His own face, elegant in crafted selfishness,
A little lake formed at his feet, by the blood of two broken hearts,
A child and one woman.
Where was God, upon this day,
Besides absent from all the dismay?
He was seated upon the highest throne,
And called for bread to be thrown.
A little current of wine,
When dominance is shared,
As this man neglected what was always bared.
Chaos drifted down the walkways
Of every new tomorrow,
And made newer puddles,
From everyone’s tears.