Stealing a Life for Profit

It hurts to see the world as it is,

where the oppressed are bound

and the power abusers succeed.

To feel their hatred for a child

because of birth and colour and

creed, and the dreadful damage

being done to violently vanquish  

good through evil.


The child begs on the street, and

for centuries pleads for coin and

she sells her body for grubby 

notes and loses her sharp sense 

of self, and the ghosts of the past

mingle with the spirits of the

present; showing them the

sheer hopelessness of ever

being better.


The man stoops, old bones

in a young mind. His back

bears the brunt of racism

and hatred gouged into his 

flesh. His once family, now

gone, and he grieves for

the countless children lost; to

vile ideals.


She snatches sleep, while the

proud company sells her life

in garments, made while she

sleepwalks into stick thin 

limbs, that crumble and break

like her spirit, under the weight

of western greed for cheap cat-

walk prosperity.


A once prophetic song, ‘When,

will they ever learn?’ And still

we go around and around with, 

grasping greedy bodies,           reaching

to enslave- to expand their profits,

and subdue dissenting voices,

until their own hearts harden and

souls shrivel.


And is God good? A face, 

diminished by the slaves lash 

and the wrongly accused cross.

He cries out for the oppressed

and the free and – Like a dove, 

hope flies on, and on and one

day, our restless wings and the

white dove, will surely rest

 in the sand.

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margins are a great place sometimes because it is where change happens fastest but it is also a horrible place when we are stuck in them and grace is the moment when we can see that someone cares.

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