Jan 20, 2016
Ashes from the cigarettes we use to numb the hunger in our stomachs Caught in a strange wind We have collected on the working man’s drenched forehead The children are drawing their futures on pavements with charcoal made of our blood The smoke is a heavy cloak wrapped around our shoulders It keeps us warm as we retreat to slumber in our cars It masks the glares of the upper class. She whispers to us and says that we belong The embers are still burning We have yet to diminish We are crouched in anticipation Flames in our chests Waiting for a spark
@rachtheimpalor
