white freckled faces.
green and blue eyes glare between locks
of bright gingered hair.
we are all prisoners of this dust road.
thin pale hands gripping
such tight grasps clasping
and it is not hunger that leads us
not fear pushing behinds us
but the road has cuaght us tight
in its red clay hands.
our enemies bear our flag
and we hate to see it so.
and so with these grasps we fight
holding tight
to our slender stick canes
carrying the bags upon our rods
like a mark of penance.
we contend with those
who were meant to defend.
we tear our claws of bullet and torch
into tanks we ourselves helped forge.
and still the sunset burns
we cannot put it out
for all our weary sweat and eager shouts
with spittle flying dusty and grey
across the scattered ranks.
we stand and march
because we cannot sit and weep.
we ignore the faces just like our own
and aim for the betraying signets.
we say they betray.
they say we revolt.
and the words are nothing to either.
because we have forgotten what they mean
and what power they had has been lost.
we may have broken the contract first
but they broken it far worse.
there is only the road
the great red stretch of dust
reaching up to curl around our feet
and pull us down.
or is it onwards?
the lines ragged run
across the grey horizon
and suddenly I wonder if we are all puppets.
we cannot sustain this.
we cannot maintain this.
a country divided must always fall,
and we're all standing with our backs against that wall.
w/ Amy Johnson- wordmaster extraordinaire.
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