Commodity
Those, that sit in their ivory towers
shout commands from a vantage point above,
to those just below in glass houses.
Who in turn light pyres to warm their finger-pointing hands
before casting stones at the questioning small crowds,
that watch with mouths agape
from the ground.
The wide eyed mob stands united in love,
face à face fear
as hands of greed rake it all in
and count the spoils in the tower.
The inquisitive crowd stands in truth
despite being bruised
by loss of livelihood and freedoms.
They know something is terribly wrong.
They stand like David,
small but mighty,
still just enough
to take aim with one small stone
hardened by the fires
of your very pyres
and take a giant down.
Stones always succumb to gravity
and the bigger they are the harder they fall.
That what is oppressive is never a match
to the lightness of air.
