The Workers

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Tiny ants ,
Puny bees,
buzzing non-stop,
to get atop;

Nevertheless they have to fail,
for the capitalists prevail;

Eternally struck in the pyramid's base,
what they own is a lace;

They,the core of the nation,
but, futile is the notion;
Few know they route the motion
of the economy with passion;

some strive by the sweat of the brow;
Others execute by the sweat of the brain;
These work by the sweat of Red;

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Fly with me...

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Inebriated

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In our Own selves....

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Do you know where I am? Do you know where you are? Do you know where we are? The grass isn’t green. The snow isn’t white. The light isn’t bright. The taste isn’t sweet. The atmosphere is strange. The air is misty. The vision is out of range. Your cheeks are thirsty. The sky looks pitch black. The birds don’t seem to fly. There is something the winds lack. Even the hard rocks cry. Is this place, the Mars? No it isn’t. This is something familiar. I had been here before. Losing the skin you possessed. Gaining superficial colors you never need. Exploring the mind you never had. Dreaming about the rainbow you never will have. Do you know where I am? Do you know where you are? Do you know where we are? I am buried alive… You are buried alive… We are buried alive… In our own selves...
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Pricking the Porcupine

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