Rage

They glide through halls of polished stone,
dine in fully-carpeted lounges,
mingle in mansions plying vintage wine.
Their words reverberate throughout the land
examined, analyzed and revered by fools.
At night they thrive
In marble habitats and exotic gardens.

In their Armani-inspired suits
They reek petrified nicotine,
clandestine deals and mindless
affairs, souls newly-soaped, soaked
In a hotel tub of hastily-concealed sins,
As they flaunt their greed and shameless
Indulgence, wandering shriveled fingers
fondle gentle young women
too naive to scream.

In their vanity, they argue pompously
About matters of state, exchanging
Insults, opportunistic ideas,
superficial comments in between.
Always on the look out for that, which
could send them away to rot for good or
earn them a moment of glory.

So they delude themselves, believing
They have every right to be where they are--
Patriots meriting utmost respect.
When in truth they are just flies
clinging to the honey pot of power
in a ravaged land.

They feign honor and wisdom
And pretentiously hoard to themselves
the monopoly of truth
Casting their verdict both upon
The guilty and the innocent.
Simply because compared to their love
for power, everything is simply expendable.

They ride their SUVs
While children brave treacherous highways
For a handful of coins,
Stomachs churning blood.

They ride their SUVs
While emaciated farmers cling to their last breath
like withered weeds, waiting for the
emancipation that would never come.

They ride their SUVs
While entire families cram inside
Plywood walls ‘neath sagging concrete
Along muck-colored creeks with nary a trace of life
Just flotsam of garbage and never-ending
Stink.

So they ride their SUVs.

by Wyanah, August 2007, all rights reserved.

* photo courtesy of mindfully.org