Child of Capitalism
Sometimes I’m a child.
I want the world to hug me,
wrap me in a blanket,
baptize me in the Black Sea and cut me
just to bring me back to life.
Maybe death is the cradle for us all,
a long nap through the seasons,
a place to be when it’s wrong, all wrong.
You see it’s all wrong and a legless lullaby
hums hope in an Aleppo pine bough.
The gas of dictators kills the spirit,
cracks the bones of hope and memories return.
The ill-kempt sheds of Auschwitz,
skin stretched rugs and lampshades
for the blind.