Wild movements in streets,
viewed with half closed lids,
by those in charge,
faces turned away,
refusing to see or hear,
the pounding bass music of tromping feet,
of the bodies set into motion by
misguided direction and fear of loss.
Our children run to blocked passages,
turn left and right through dark mazes,
fighting to break hedges, forge their paths,
to have light be seen from within,
for they are full of intention and right,
whatever we may think,
however we may dismiss,
and are due a listen.
But the powers look through spread fingers,
seeing only bits and pieces
of the picture of discontentment
fueled by dreams unrealized,
unattainable despite all efforts,
and regardless of noses shortened,
nubbed and worn smooth
by the grindstone.
And so we must pray for those who turn back,
defeated, beaten and bested,
victims of fragile, popped bubbles,
for that will be the dusty ruin of all the world.