Living in a dungeon, without four walls
In walls of four and a ceiling of twelve
The numbers on the tip of the finger,
Because out invited me not
Even when without, to axe joblessness
Lacking, smiling, and talking faces,
Extend my incarceration
Live on the streets with a streaming
two-legged ghost.
Pounding the paths, for not there
sustenance
Where is the government? Where is the job
Dearth all over, of job, of road, of
water, of clinic,
Even of collective waste bin,
Litters, hugging the sky, stench
feeding the nose
Yet, they are in charge; they got the
jobs, elective offices.
Birth of deceit, gun, murder, lip
service promises
Serve the state; they do, by throwing
lavish wedding parties,
At the president’s town home, for the
bride,
At the governor’s town home, as the
groom,
At the governor’s state house, still
as the groom,
Grand finale, at the palatial
presidential palace
Their electrical power holder withheld power,
Living the balance of active
imagination
I, though, ride on my prison term with
friendly darkness.
The ever constant companion, anyway.
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