Another day, another poem.
I AM THE CROWD.
I am the crowd
I swim in the quagmire of poverty
its hooks, its barbs, tear my flesh
rupture my dreams,
I hold my breath for centuries
hoping to break through, grasp pure air.
Through the murky mire
I see bright things, shiny things sparkle
I see women in fine dresses, men in silk shirts.
I ask myself,
why do I swim in this cesspool?
I want the light and warmth of rectitude
to caress my labouring body,
seeds of my dreams to bloom
like wild flowers in a meadow.
One day, I will use my boundless strength
to haul this torn, battered being
out of the morass
onto the warm grassy bank,
when I do;
Woe betide you, women in fine dresses
woe betide you mister in your fine silk shirt
should you ever try to get in my way,
for I am the strength of the world,
I am the crowd.
