Dinner In Debris

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Home in its time was the city of gods,

coliseum fell,

well wishers fell at its feet,

modeled the call to re-enact the fallen pillars,

when boulders fresh from the mountains edge roll the village.

Villagers to pillagers,

poaching off the artifacts,

hoax comradery and slowly peel the numbers back,

picked off one by one,

slingshots at ogres,

but ogres are the homeless,

sick clutter in the roses, know this.

Or be exposed to the mighty,

fire and brimstone on your homes,

and your icy climb for life just might be snowed under,

backed up,

showed nil in the rattling cup.

For your petty blunders,

of trying to fix the floorboards,

hold the walls up with a straw horde,

that blows over in the slightest of breeze,

means persuaded by necessity for rice and beans.

Cured meat for the kids severed in 10 portions,

one serve for the ingrained one life aborted,

but at no choice of you or your family be,

peeking duck in another city.

Dreams are made of such sweet sacrifice,

but whipped into shape by the old cat of nines,

living in amongst the bits of crumbled wall,

who’s already navigated this pitfall?

Who could pre-empt when so self assured?

People gathered up in picket lines with china bowls,

with nothing to protest but hunger in a blindfold.

One scoop of soup,

please sir I want some more,

but two scoops of soup means a family leaves poor.

New hallway out the front of the cabin,

but it don’t lead nowhere,

pokes a stare at the circle embracing on the floor,

using a voice to sing,

and lighten up the heavy burden words of disrepair.

For more to come

like spit off a rain water tank,

falling in parody of all mud and mixture in the banks.

All class and fixture in its domineering ranks.

Dictator to fake fresh water in his wake.

Lit stature to cover all the hatred in mistakes,

Like a mother late and fearful for her water to break.