You force us not to promised future
but back to the shackles and master's whip.
To be placed under heal of the republic
absent decency of choice in the matter.
Such are we to repeat bitter past
clinging on to hope and prayers.
Until the Spartacus among us is revealed
inciting great fight for final freedom.
Even in the wake of death
the heavens split with the echo's of free men and women.
In this life or the next we shall not bleed
for fear of punishment shall disappear.
In this life or the next we shall see
all are equal and truly free.
About the Creator
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
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