Farms to Flames

We work the barren land,
We toil the hardened earth,
We search the dry sand,
But fail to prove our worth.
Futile are our struggles,
Fertile are their schemes,
Our hopes are left to dangle,
Open eyes with hopeless dreams.
Dead is our god, who has been deaf,
Vile are the rulers, pretending to be blind,
We cry, we mourn, we plead with empty breath,
Hope to waken, dead conscience and mind.
Battered we stand, with broken bones,
Watching and smirking, they sit on lofty thrones,
Delusional and forgetful, they are on ill-gotten leverage,
But soon people will wake, remembering our unforgotten courage.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s