They say,“You are what you eat”as they feed us processed treatsand they tell us that they love to see us smile.
Then our teeth are drilled about,squeezed together,taken out,the pain of which is dampened with a dial.
“The kids are all-right,” they say,sedated and called ‘bright,’we pay for beauty, for knowledge, and for health.
Though the damage is unseenwe start to fear things deemed ‘unclean’and chase a chalice lost to many labeled ‘wealth.’
Perfection is its poisonthat we drink as holy wineit takes its time to bruise our innardswith its chokehold from behind.
“The kids are all-right, PLEASE!”they beg of us to stop our asking as the burden’s awfully taxing to them now.
They’ve got children sick in bed—wah!crying off their headsand their smiles can be ordered up no longer.
Still they send us off to bedwith a bandage round our headand they promise us this pain will make us stronger.
As the children drop like fliessome begin to question why—could it be distance truly makes the heart grow weaker?
I ponder from my drafty bed,wishing for a hand instead—I dream of freedomand a fire everlasting.
“And the kids—how are the children?”Underfed and almost fullof empty promises—so please:continue asking.