The life that we throw away
like silver spoons, in a paper lunch sack
is a tragedy.
We don’t know we do it
because, fate protects us
from the agony
of what might’ve been.
It’s hard to see people
for who they are
underneath
their false tasks.
Their hunger, is obvious.
Their stomach, is growling
for that sack lunch,
that can starve a madman’s soul
because
a stomach seldom satisfied
gets used to nothing.
Hunger, is the world
eating itself
filled and wasted
by nothing.
The strong man, with big fingers
tries to type, at an office job
He answers phones, and listens, to weak people.
Men, don’t know
what to do.
Fate, is a feather blowing in the wind
It belongs
to flightless birds
who don’t know why,
they don’t soar
in the sky.