Written by: Mike Butler

-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.