Rich Hands, Empty Pockets
Rich Hands, Empty Pockets
That's the anthem echoing through a system
Built on grind.
Gold towers rising high, scraping skies that never contort down.
To see the ones breathing exhausted beneath.
Rich hands, Empty pockets- silver glimmer like it's got a heartbeat,
While hope thins out like the last light of vespers.
The needy wait in the muzzle of shadows,
Holding stories the world keeps tripping over,
Holding one's breath for someone- anyone to finally see their plight.
Rich hands, Empty pockets- a divide etched deep by recourses we pretend not to notice.
Material gain becomes the measure of worth,
And Humanity slips soft, almost silent, through
Cracks we walk past every day,
Like they ain't credence in whole lives and still-
Rich hands, Empty pockets keep ringing, keeps rising, keep asking
How long a system can shine while its people become colorless.
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