Who will sweep them away?
Hidden in every nooks and crannies
are roaches of affliction, and bugs of disturbances.
We all are entangled in the web of sponsored truth.
Oh, well! The cleaners you might say.
In their hands are brooms long enough to sweep what eyes can behold,
but too short to expose skeletons of rodents thereof.
You might feel insecure, as though they care.
All hidden under the umbrella of DISCRETIONAL DISCHARGE
The freedom we seek,
the change we desire can’t shield us from the heavy downpour of destruction.
Oh yeah, and about the umbrella?
We flag above our heads,
not noticing the holes in it.
Until we are all soaked.
The freedom of our course has been held spellbound,
and our feet, drowning in the stagnated flood.
We’ve plod a path of doom.
A forty days of damnation,
yet, another hundred and fifty days of recuperation.
But surely, we’d live by the elders word; where there’s life, there’s hope.