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Tomorrow We Starve by Stewart Stafford
Grey aftertaste of dawn's biting light,
In emptied pockets, lint lesions blight,
A funeral march, with posture askew,
To a larder bare, options few.
A cup of tea's transient balm,
Rip open bills in the trembling calm,
Hope flickers in redemption's seam,
Vanishing as we scratch a fragile dream.
Wages held back, our pleas ignored,
To cloudy ivory towers, we implored,
Shadow people ground to a husk,
Tiny crumb specks in the dusk.
An overseer's laugh, a cruel facade,
The golden rule's sick charade,
Fingers sear in the dying flame,
The keening wind calls my name.
Reflections shatter, a distorted view,
Pipe dreams, strangled at birth, through,
The shaming shade exacts its cost,
Each pore clogged with penury's frost.
In darkest siege, a spark may ignite,
Defiant ember beacon's twilight,
Hope battered, but refuses to die,
Whispered lifeline to the coldest sky.
© 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.
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