Poetry-Thing Thursday: One’s Breath

In the rise and fall of nations,
is a birth of flames and destruction;
the downplay of human character,
by greed-fueled plague-rats,
toward any dissent.
“Shout them down!”
And so back to bed they’re sent.

Meanwhile enthusiasm finds no love nor purchase,
in the minds of those most deserving,
for it is difficult to see or find happiness,
when one’s eyes are afflicted, infected, blended,
by the debilitating disease of poverty.

But it is not natural.
Nor has it come from nature.
It is, and was, spread by man,
the aforementioned wealthy ones.
And all in hopes,
of claiming the world,
for they and themselves alone.

Without the poor to trod upon,
nor to terrify and keep in line–
and the ever-shrinking middle-class ilk,
those wealthy rats will be forced to walk,
through their own layered filth.
We can only hope,
that very act,
will mutate them into better Beings.

But I would not advise holding one’s breath.