We are like the dinosaur
No one sees us anymore
Our pterodactyl metaphor
You’ve but chosen to ignore
Like victims of an unseen war
You’re hiding out behind a door
But all the Gods are keeping score
What was shall be as was before
And all the poets apiece implore
But peace cannot begin to roar
While every dollar has its whore
Slaves to scrub the Master’s floor
His pitcher full of souls to pour
He’s a greedy collecting connoisseur
And so we grieve the lonely poor
On their island from our shore.
Ciera S. Louise c. November 27, 2005