Division

We struggle for signs,
find holes burnt into our pockets
and smoke imprinted with official binds.

Kicked back down as a class,
regarded with anything but class.
Finding we must work harder for less.

There’s no relief when we sleep,
they have stuffed our pillows -
- so full of orders that even are dreams they reap.

Realising there’s no worth in hopes,
they dash them like a heart in their hand
while drawing forth signs with matching ones in their eyes.

Life is sailing little toy boats, for them.
While ours is a sinking ship,
struggling in quick sand.