Child of Capitalism

Child of Capitalism

Sometimes I’m a child.

I want the world to hug me,

wrap me in a blanket,

whisper gibberish,

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.