In Service

We Who serve

Lost and confused, astray and missing.
We who are down below, the proletarians we are.
 Lost with the wind like the ripped half of a tailless kite,
We sway and travel to the tandem of the turbulence in the storm.
We think we float and yet we tumble and struggle to keep acouse.
When we finally drop to the ground like a bird dead mid flight,
The realization hits us and our eyes actually open.





Like a wall of smoke suddenly dispersing,
Our senses become sharp and our understanding is booted to a hundred percent.
When we fall,
They come to us,
Offering outstretched hands,
Hands stained with the invincible blood of those who were first to hit the ground,
Blood of the first casualties.

Though conscious,
The awareness of our situation blinds us from the ominous signs that Help is self made.
The sugar coated tongue of these narcissists,
These narcissists who use their saccharined words to buy our usefulness and essence,
The same narcissists dump us when they come of power.

Our words no longer reach them,
Like a busted electronic woofer,
The sound we make is noise so to their ears we bicker.
We serve them to our own distaste
That which belongs to us after service is denied us
Our condition?
Our condition is deteriorating,
Now we have not just fallen,
We have sunk six feet below the surface.

I hear footsteps,
Footsteps approach and the raucous sound of digging equipments
Deafen me from the sound of hope that comes with the footsteps.
Beneath,
Where I lay on my back in the softness and couched confinement of a rectangular room,
 A room built to my size just enough for me to move an inch.
I see the red in the setting of the sun,
The night falls and I feel the presence of terror.
 Patiently, I wait, wasting time, time I no longer posses,
But yet hope still afire in my bloodless heart, hope that truly! One day we the proletarians,
The millions of us buried beneath will rise like an army of Hitler,
An army that will jail break the legion of its self from the box we have helped fit ourselves.