We, the young

aged by hate,

torn by lonesome longing for days

hidden in future history, 

Stalked by a past twisted and turned by beliefs and 

banter... ugly.

We, the few

jaded and new,

free to be poor and bound to be broken

by haggling fools, political tools,

Hiding behind brick walls in the midst of failure

We, the neglected

Do lie,

where once stood,

the leaders of the unseen path,

bushwackers, protestors, lovers, dreamers,

Gone.

We, the patronized,

hung up with pins from the pockets of pragmatists,

pointed at... prodded at, ruled by miserable masters,

burning bridges ten-feet-tall

no more justice for one and all,

only power slaying power, 

partial-terror, partial-pain,

It's murder all the same.

We, the hungry,

look for scarps around clay feet,

of unreachable success, much too high to see

There are pillars holding lies,

from men in business suits and ties,

and the louder we yell, 

the thicker the door to their empty minds.

We, the many,

Plead at the pandering pawns that are

our menders, and our murderers,

we kiss, with drying lips, the rings of kings

who tie us to the ground, keep us blindfolded...

so we never see a light from a promising moon,

time's reminder that all is ok,

that change is not lost...

And in the smokey sky is not a hint of light nor dark...

the days are numbered, and our empty hearts are gray.

And we wait for another time, 

when we will be trusted

when we will not hear falsehoods,

riding on the broken backs of camels

Waiting for the ground to be reborn,

for the Earth to be remade,

We the empty,

see our land spinning 

down,

down,

down to where nothing is ever seen,

no one would dare to be

in nihility.

We the burdened, 

carry what could be at stake,

buckle under the weight of expectations,

bend to smell the roses,

to be pricked by sharpened thorns, 

and we hurry forth for all,

followed by none,

led by none...

We the people...

cry.