Breadcrumbs-By Samuel Williams
Tsar!!!!!!
Ceasar!!!!!!
Why doest thou breadcumbs lingered with the wind?
These leftover, over left, and over swung.
Why does we...no do we...me and them...I...and...him...and her,
Serf, but in a state; serfdom.
Silent is night, compared to a pugnacious, disconcerted storm.
Poverty is real, so is war, so is the leper that withers with the clock against his heart.
I work ...but the sun that is a heathen, works hither with me.
Why does thou fool me with thy breadcrumbs?
For when eaten, my inside screams for more.
For they feed not my soul, neither the temple of the Jews, nor a Bread & Circus.
They only play with subtle wind, and dance with the gypsies.
It is but of obsolete sorts.
I in my serfdom
Have fallen into inhumanity
That I may fancy my flesh as elastic
As it stretched over my bones to hide my inner deterioration.
I am but a corpse
Dead to dead things
And to dead to you,
Dead to death that he may take me by morn.
Master put thy Breadcrumbs away,
To feed your vanity.
To feed your sadism that hides your humanity from the owls.
Master, why does thou breadcrumbs call me out? Serf...Serf.
YOU ARE READING
Breadcrumbs
Short StoryBreadcrumbs is a poem that showcases the realness of poverty, and the mistreatment the rich perform on the poor.
