Tomorrow

-for the 99% The cock crows at first light. Cracking the wind’s direction like wheat under the heavy plow waking our eyes as red as buckshot defying the night, calling the day, signaling strength to rise and be heard by every women and child; we are but men calling to the wild that soon a dark room’s future will fold under the color of light. The dust never seems to settle without some rain on our half grown gardens strange with the smell of suffering. Toil never triumphs anymore, just another ones hardship on the outlying trees never bearing the fruit of his righteousness. We are more than just waves breaking rock into more rock.