The rich don't hear blades in the air for their sins.
They sleep undisturbed by the weight of their crimes
While gods from on high slash at poor people's slumber
And steal their poor dreams
With spotlights and thunder,
And sometimes at night, I
wake up and wonder
If I should pull trigger, cocked with my thumb
And throw a bullet
in the path
of the blades.
©1992 Alan P. Scott. All rights reserved.
Last updated August 12, 1999.