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Will you ever know
when the cormorant
has finally dried all
of it’s wings?

Or, where the snows
first came from
as they lie on
five golden rings?

Can you comprehend the effort
it takes to survive inside a deathly land?

To travel through jungle, ocean, desert
only to be looked at through their hands.

As worldviews topple, slanted,
by misfortune’s birthly plots.

What the “lucky” ones, know,
is granted
but what they have never was.

They subjugated and supplanted.

They’re not lucky.

It’s not inheritance.

They’ve just taken the fucking lot.

© poormansdreams

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