The Dream
These days are long
And I live them twice as hard, half as strong
Her fast, wrongful stare, her false tears, glass streams, reflecting, coldly mirroring last dreams.
A cold lie, my roaring conscience cries, screams.
These days are grey
Still we squint and stare and lead them all astray.
Tanned as tar and lead, the malice traces
lines we carved ourselves in our own faces.
Her stifled cry, alive our burning pulse,
Races
These days are cruel
But the wretched fall too far to feel renewal
They'd falter, fear the end of their narration, drowned in waves of false emancipation.
Our painted skies, disguise the tears of a blind Nation.
These days are yours
Yet the yoke still binds you, beaten on all fours
Dead between the waist and what was wasted
Dust it seems now all that mouth has tasted
Your tired eyes , betray the fact you never really faced it.
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