The voices stand

on the edge of my chest

naked, they remain
and rest

panting

stripped
or wandering

like ghosts…
Dripping leftover-gold

from their lips

stains my ear
as I watch and hear

the pain

the lament
of the voices impaled

on my throat

feeding the one percent.
I am the lair

of the voices and the stare

–often silent, inarticulate
sounds, finely draping the grief,

the despair
with a tight, flowing

robe waving

waving
as the leaf

against the tides
of mornings

and evenings

dismissed.
The voices, they hang

from my heart,
some planted hand-

deep,
others sung

over the graveyard

by Wall-Street

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

____________

Painting: David LESTER