where the writers are
Poetic Injustice

An old song and a muffled cry,

Constricted lungs, saliva run dry;

Knees bent to the pavement,

Calloused hands clasped

in a multilingual silence –

we ARE their story.

 

Shadows dance among us,

forlorn

while the devil laughs

his famous verse.

Between a poem and a prayer,

What are we?