I am misaligned with the moon,
counting mandarin orange sandwiches
in the dark while skin opens its
pores to the rain of revolution.
Limbs feel oppression's box
in dim light, trailing sobs;
voices call only to fall
on deaf ears.
Tall oaks shadow my waxed profile
spit into prefabricated form;
turn away from abhorrent stares.
I bleed for freedom
in the land of the free.
Not one of my bones are counted
for a pending noose probing civil rights
hidden behind society's mask of
corruption and monetary security.
Where is the dollar that dares buy my
human form when the common enemy
castrates the leper of the day?
Pamela A. Lamppa
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