within the towering spires of city skyscrapers
thousands of functionaries shuffling their papers
are the ruling, and are the ruled
and the purpose towards which their effort’s pooled
is keeping track of who owes what
for which and why and how it will be payed, but
none of them make anything – nothing is grown –
all goods and foods come from lands unknown
far, far away where the people are so poor
that they sell to instead of buying from the store
and I am of these, and I and my fellows
wonder whether it’s time to go say our hellos
(100 words for 100WW – Photo by Roman Logov)
Also linking this post up with Weekend Writing Warriors! (www.wewriwa.com)
OoooH! I like this, Dan. Rhythmic and tragic and moodily visual.
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Very… apropos to an article I was reading recently about the situation of coal mining families in Appalachia
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Nice! I love poetry that rhymes. You did a good job of that!
Very thought-provoking.
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In today’s economy, folks who actually produce things get shafted, that’s for sure.
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