The Appeal

My biggest dream seems to be an unreal appeal:

If I could shoulder the bolder of world disorder,

Compress the distress into a wall as mortar

Press down the brown goop that sticks and grips

Onto our people, our nation, of which an unbalanced ration

Are starving, swaying, undoubtedly paying

For lack of green, like money or land- more like sand

Sifting or drifting through fingers of calloused palaces

Known as the human body but these temples are shoddy

From dirty streets, not fit for elites with silky sheets.

As a class en masse, safe from harass and lambastes,

We must lift, shift, lend and tend to our fellow man

Who feel hollow and harrow imbued with sorrow

Not to mention hunger which growls like thunder

Bursting in their belly, cursing that Hell should be

Their only world. From ours they've been hurled

And left bereft of a beautiful life. There's nothing but strife.

I'd give a limb if I could fill to the brim a infinite pot

With coins, bills- the whole lot and offer grandeur to the poor

People who are people, part of us like the steeple of a church.

Let the world lurch into a rhythm of humanitarianism

And feel the real appeal of this dream so extreme.  

© Mikal Minarich