The Price of Pretence

I turn away from her for now. I have
Some work to do. The world has gotten
Out of joint. The billions starve or just
Get by. Their jobs are dreadful, or they
Have no jobs, and anything they earn is
Sent uphill to cushion lives already soft,
Already rich, and why? The billions
Cower and they owe. Those living softly
Own. Must that be all there is to this?
The few lay claim, they've deeds and titles,
To the land, the factories, to ideas others
Once had had, and, owning, say they
Must be paid. Okay, but what is ownership?
At root, it's merely acquiescence, ours.
The billions let them make their claims,
Though, clearly, they have made and
Purchased what the wealthy grasp, yet
Couldn't hope to hold, should all the
Rest of us not acquiesce. The billions
Shouldn't honor claims. They ought
To bellow, "More is ours, and less is yours.
You have enough." The deeds and titles
Should be burned, and all those merely
Getting by, turned owners, could be paid.
The world would be less out of joint,
And I, with my work mostly done,
Could turn again to her.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 95 times
Written on 2015-07-25 at 14:17

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