a candlelit vigil for the working class

woefully unprepared
for another day spent
in the pursuit of
another person’s riches
an angel of commerce
a half burnt candle
my halo flickers
as rivulets of waxy flesh
run down to pool around
my tapping toes
impatiently shedding
the best parts of myself
to chase down a payday
that is insulting at best
wobbling along the
poverty line as
inflation skyrockets
spending all of my time
making someone else’s
luxury a possibility

the industrial complex
does not breed thinkers
it churns out drones
incapable of advancement
tiny cogs in a broken machine
crushing dreams for use
to fettilize the fields
in which the elite
bury the bodies of those
broken in the pursuit
of never quite enough
worker bees gathering pollen
while the honey is
processed and bottled
selling souls for enough
pocket change to rent out
internment camps couched
as highrise apartments
with a view of a
forever burning skyline

the rich get richer
while the poor become
indoctrinated into an
american dream grown stagnant
just the carbonized faces
of a dying working class
frozen in the waxy runoff
of a candlelit vigil
for the tired masses
watching television while
whispering one day
they will be the boss
swearing they will do better
unwilling to admit
this cyclical death march
is just the uneven hallway
into the slaughterhouse
where the only retirement
is an air hammer held
by the uncaring hands of
management just as trapped
as the corpses they are
forced to climb over
to get to the next
unnecessary conference call


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