Towers of Grief

I don't know why I wrote it this way.

A golden tower scrapes the poisoned sky,
Where suits sip silence brewed in silver cups,
While sweat drips where children stitch their fate.
The earth is mined so few may learn to fly,
Their empires built on sadly stolen luck,
As billionaires grow fat while poor men wait.
These days ashes choke the lungs of love.
Their charts rise high as graves fill up below,
And progress sings beneath a booted shove.
Please free your mind, from all they know.
Never cry when you see a dying dove.

In the shadow of the golden tower, where smog choked the sun and silence lined the pockets of the powerful, a dove was born—not white, but gray with soot and scar. She was Ash, hatched beneath rusted steel and wires, high above the factories where children stitched the world’s wealth with bleeding fingers.

Ash saw it all from her perch. The laughter of the rich below rang like war drums to her ears. She watched them drink silence, watched them trade lives like coins, watched graves bloom where gardens should have grown. Other birds flew away. Ash stayed.

Watching for years, her life force dwindled, people and pollution grow more. Laid upon a dusty earth choking in a puddle of filth. She found herself beginning to feel free. As she passed, the children cheered. Feeling jealous of her glee.