caged lambs wool soaked with urine from the holding pens shivering frightened grasping for one breath of the promised freedom from oppression not this slaughter house of innocent souls but now it’s lights out at the border detention center
spirits make another silent march pass the living whispering warnings as they stare into empty eyes eyes that cannot see the dangers of hate and greed or how denial of inhumanity turns the earth into graves graves for children graves for the poor graves for the weak graves for those different and soon graves for the blind who will then join the march with closed eyes that see
wrapped in such bright foil and moving you might wonder whose christmas gifts these are shall i tell you these are for despair small government orphaned children nestled all snug in their thermal blankets on cold border floors while visions of their parents dance in their heads as they face another day of dread
standing in a line outside the old town free clinic was the brown bag prophet who said i’m here to get my yearly flu shot don’t want to join the 61 thousand that died last year in the states guess i’m luckier than some folks like those children detained at our southern border seems us customs and border protection have decided not to give influenza vaccine to migrant children in their care that should free up some bucks for the lump’s wall
minor not to be taken seriously then some blistering redness and swellings along the borders fever soon followed flu-like symptoms became common as did nausea rapidly the very elements of humanity were destroyed by the necrotizing fasciitis of a nation’s hidden disease catalyzed by one infectious person
eyes move slowly concealing fear heavy boots drug like bodies across cold concrete floors are seen from beneath thin thermal sheets heart beats racing chasing shallow breaths dried tears cling like arms around a parent’s waist are the only trace of moments best forgotten this cannot be the dream the dream shared by so many before leaving for freedom this cannot be este no puede ser el sueño