Before taking that first morning breath, before sunlight slowly pries open my crusty lids to behold another hopeful day. Weary of the disappointments that this ritual brings, I pray. And wonder if truly I am heard, or are these efforts, merely this efforts; to fall upon not death ears for this would mean Someone is somewhere to listen but can not, and if this is to be true? Then I ask my brothers to listen. Are you there? No, I mean are you really there? With your thoughts of the next piece of ass, Your next dollar that if the one that rules these separated, And non-feeling controllers of the flesh decided to change what was Once a bill to trash the homeless would be wealthy and the wealthy no more. My prayers merge with thoughts, And these thoughts turn into hours, For in thought things can be how I would like them to be and not how they are.
