Pulsing streams of peoples, emerging and glistening with rage,
Freely flowing with determination, in every cut, from society’s cage.
Each of the wounds they exit, as oozing points of hope,
The rush is not for grandeur, it’s not that for which they grope.
But for freedom from injustice, untruth and the daily grind,
It’s escape from oppression and routine, they hope to find.
First running, then dripping in random form,
Each drop falls silently, in mankind’s storm.
The more that fall, the weaker lands grow,
How to stop the gush, leaders can’t know.
Though their numbers include, every race, sex and age,
Their common connection, is what’s set this stage.
Lack of love and purposeful lives, are the common and true,
Reasons for this bleeding, and the world’s one, and last, clue.
C. J. Marshowler
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