Two Thousand and Seventeen

bum-sleeping-by-blek

 Starving street rats bicker o’er crumbs of bread,
In gutters flooded with a pestilence,
The promise of the morrow in the wind fled.

Listen as men of no consequence said,
As golden tongues lick in malevolence,
Starving street rats bicker o’er crumbs of bread.

The chimney’s black breath chokes the conscious head,
As silence echoes in great prevalence,
The promise of the morrow in the wind fled.

O’er the towers of such fragile hope thread,
Woven by those of famine’s testaments,
Starving street rats bicker o’er crumbs of bread.

And dogs gnaw on bones of knowledge unfed,
Morsels from on high set precedence,
The promise of the morrow in the wind fled.

With the children hiding under the bed,
The might unchallenged burns all evidence,
Starving street rats bicker o’er crumbs of bread,
The promise of the morrow in the wind fled.

  
Art by blek.   

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