Plagued Generation

I swear I was an innocent bystander when the mirrored metallic hotdog crossed the planes of surreal and subconcious. I witnessed the takeoff faster than a time touched woman in a suburban grocery store when the last carton of milk with that later date is taken from the mirrored door, reflecting her greed; carried away to the late night Bingo games and trips to the Cadillac dealership and soon to that comfortable wooden box, methodically placed in the swiss cheese soil. We cry out, the little girls with clay knees and puzzle-touched dresses we cry out, the little boys with bloated bellies and sunken eyes. We cry out, Red Cross, refugee camps, blood diamonds and Darfur. Limbs become scattered by a government tattered with Public Service announcements and our safety is now measured by a color. We call out to injustice with our broken generation. struggling identites with wasted souls and plagued memories of fallen twins and combustible buses. We call out to injustice.