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Poem
I passed on the street I lived once, and saw the shame
Of history. The promise claimed by a second chance
Of hard work and misery, devastated by brinksters' game:
A stealth control of economy. Here a little light that lanced
The pupil of the eyes, pierced like a dagger in the heart
Here my house stood foreclosed. And on the wind the word
Was blame: we bought what we could not afford,
Now the people are victims twice, and we
Saddled with blame, find here no place for mercy.
A bitter gall of clever lies tearing us once more apart
Only the serpent streams here,  the grim grass grave heart 
Where giant trees suck water from the empty soil, and make
Great canopies, but we find no rest. For in these branches
The same snake drives little birds from their nest. Take
A picture here, where Eden turns to wilderness; traunches
Of golden sunlight poured upon dead bush and leaves
Look not for the medicinal herbs choked by barren trees,
No sprinkler runs, no pompous cougar fawns, truth grieves
Alone. The wasting rich pay less and gets more; he pleas
For more where the poor sweats still. A house to live
Is now conceived above our due deserve and means.
O buildings gaped your swinging doors, for pensive 
Blows the wind: I pray this debt forgive, let creditor cleans
The slate for all, so from a level field we start again.

The house was honest sweat, and love's fair dream
The deal they sold me was just a rotten scheme
For ambition shackled us with an existential chain
And we are left with nothing now but promises vain
And the tongue of politics whipping our backs again
Yet in this foreclosure's spate we only ask to work now
There is no milk to come by killing us, the economy's cow
O let there be compassion where greed betrayed good men
Or the shadow that falls on barren walls will bring a bitter end.
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