Yet, ’tis not poverty, but rather
Absence of affluence surrounded
By wealth as all my air impounded,
Like sapling where tall trees do gather
Choking the sunlight—men’s loud blather
Conceals my bleat, their lies unfounded
Have me regardless wholly hounded,
So I call out to Son and Father.
Who else might heed my cries? The room
Is thick with claustrophobic squalor--
Who else but God might hear me holler?
I’d call for rescue from the gloom
Amongst my peers—but call to whom?
All are too busy, slaves in collar
Piaculative to chase their dollar,
Fixation as does them consume.