America’s Suffering

I see beggars suffering silently
uncounted out in the streets,
these old rags slumped over plead
but only each to each
as none will see their tears,
and it’s the beggars weeping
who see America the great
brought down to her blood covered knees,
who see the mechanic wrenching
for loving family and pennies
who see the carpenter sawing,
measuring his losses, and cut like fir
for lumber to build this dark world.
who see the mason cemented
to the bricks of his tomb,
when he has fitted the last brick
up over his most secret of hopes.

He hopes that when he builds the walls
that there is still an art in stacking bricks
and that he will never be so robotic
as the men who build the factory bells,
the whistles, and the sum of its parts,
but sadly he knows that there is no art,
that laboring while suffering brings only pain,
and that true art is born
in the eternal flame of joy and grief:
the having the money
to successfully raise a family,
but being unable to stop
the illness that took his wife,
and the being lost and without hope
only to find his meaning
in bricks and the stacking of them
and bread that feeds more than his mouth.

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