The Dungeons of Hope
My heart of stone quenches its thirst in the bowels of misery.
Since the cradle, I have dragged my coffin through Lucifer's nightmares.
I carry the hunger of a vampire, like those gangsters scarred by the flames of hell.
I bear the pedigree of a fugitive criminal wandering through the garbage heaps of the slaveholding Republic of Enlightenment.
To serve as a house ***** is a curse with murderous consequences.
I am at war, like all those workers who know they are being violated by bloodthirsty predators on the crumbling sidewalks of poverty.
My veins are tattooed with the barbed wire of a century that sells its children by the weight of cemeteries.
I chew fragments of hope like shards of glass lodged in the throat of my soul's streetlamps.
Their palaces stand upon the bent spines of crowds reduced to the hunger-stricken silence born of capitalism's savagery.
My existence resembles a sentence carved into the granite of a sleepless court.
Their flattery carries the scent of flowers laid upon the coffins of the people's truths.
I walk among the ruins of my past with the fury of a survivor condemned to be reborn beneath winter's rubble.
Their traps howl like shrouds above the morbid banquets where merchants of darkness feast.
I exorcise millennial curses upon walls of blasphemy, so that the hatred of my oppressors may become the drug that fuels my determination.
I possess the strength of a traumatized survivor rowing against the current across an ocean of poisoned certainties.
Their moralistic platitudes hand out cardboard halos to executioners disguised as the owners of historical truth.
Their handshakes conceal a contract written in the cold ink of willing chains.
They build cathedrals of numbers upon the bones of the relentlessly exploited innocent.
Their clocks devour time like starving vultures circling above miserable wages.
I have seen children learn resignation before they could even write the wishes of their own destiny.
Their demons recite accursed psalms to broken souls kneeling before the altar of the fleeting.
Their praises are nothing but polished helmets worn smooth by the habit of commanding the silence of cemeteries.
I would rather stand in poverty than feast in the kitchens of voluntary submission.
My conscience sings songs of liberation that the sufferings bound to the color of my skin consecrate with fierce joy.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
