Caged

We are birds

freedom measured

by cage size and whims of our masters

don’t speak of god’s will.

He’s smoking a Cuban whistler

drawing hard on a factory made blunt

somewhere in the golden boardrooms of Wall Street emperors,

alpaca stuffed recliners drinking the blood of Christ.

We are birds

flying in circles

chasing dollars and breadcrumbs

chicklets with gawking beaks screaming,

“No room, no room at the inn.”

Four,

one will scream of freedom, one suicidal,

one staring through the bars

hoping his sister will soar through the cell’s gate.

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