a short poem reflecting the rage of the enslaved.
They speak; expect no answer.
Truth spare, but lies are more.
Hear, yet never listen.
Peace and expect a war.
It is cold outside and the window open.
We open and we shut the door.
Thrive amongst the wealthy peasants.
Live rich, yet we are poor.
Lost, but not abandoned.
They feel, but I can’t feel touched.
Ice surrounds the embers deep.
Detached, and don’t give much.
Cost, but never priced out loud.
Behind this face; is darkness leaning?
Light cast upon the surface, pales.
Kindness has no meaning.
Smile, but teeth are never seen.
Turn, but safe is your back to reason?
Blades are not sharp, yet they cut the same.
Whip is to pain is to freedom.