The pain is deep.
A never ending pit,
full of bodies,
thousands of souls,
million of pieces,
the onlookers weep.
Counting each rock,
each grain of sand,
a memory of that horrible day.
Eyes opened for a moment in time,
blinded from reality.
The symbol of our power,
a united front,
broke the barriers that blocked our truth.
We passively wait as the government decides our fate,
but we are not the dying group.
Millions are killed by a so called coup.
This coup was a bomb.
Killing a nation, not just a few.
Before we pray for me and you,
Should millions of innocent souls die?
Young and old......they drop like flies.
Corroding the back of the world where pureness use to grow.
Those that remain now reap what they’ve sewn.
Take this life,
I need that oil.
The causes of death for the new millenia.
No one untouched by the new school of hard luck,
will die not knowing, the power of a buck.
You can either afford to buy government protection,
or waste away within the impoverished section,
that could not buy this year’s politician.
Copyright - Michelle Poet January, 2002