Slaves to the system we are made,
Pity would be no more,
Neither would love
nor solace,
If the bourgeoisie would not make a proletariat,
Work with no hope,
Faces unbrightened.
Let us coy under suppression,
Deafened,
Fastened with the girdle,
With which the cup of sorrow we share,
A stale species we shall end up,
and progress will no more be a glare,
The chapters of reality shall be clouded,
All left is to beckon,
Once a glebe,
Our voice shall be nary.
YOU ARE READING
THE BOY ON THE BRIDGE.
PoetryThe weakest ink harbors the strongest minds. A collection of thoughts that will blow your mind. Some emotions laced herein are quirky, any similarity to real characters is just a mere coincidence*
