still picking cotton…

fingers
raw
blood dyes
the
whiteness
bags
of
enslavement
fill
the coffers
of
society’s sloths
land owners
and
corporate moguls
who’ve
never
lifted
anything
but
a whip
or
martini glass
and
unable to
carry
even the lightest
yoke
of
labor
they claim
they’ve worked
hard
for
their wealth
but
it is
our blood
staining
every fiber
they’ve done nothing
but
enslave
they
own
nothing
nothing
just
a myth
which
they repeat
as
their mantra
leaving
us
to
pick
the world’s
cotton

 

the book of dying 3:2…

history of men death’s dark angels
wingless night creature messengers of evil
life’s slave traders gold for souls
believers in prayer fee for redemption

 

the book of dying: 1:8…

while some starved others grew fat
demanding the weak carry their load
the indebted workers had no choice
so made gold they couldn’t hold

 

mandatory…

 

carefully removing
her dreams
she sat naked
on the floor
staring out
into the night
her room lit only
by
the headlights
of
passing cars
shedding all
her
disbeliefs
she
offered up
another prayer
this time
not herself
but
for those
who sat naked
not
of
their own
choice