Pulse

Model citizens they keep

to themselves,

like closed books

on dusty and

solitary shelves.

I read Within their volumes

of poverty and despair.

A pauper’s dogma

preached with a

rich man’s flair.

Heirs to the ghetto,

they’re wide eyed

and full of need.

Nearly invisible

when consumed by greed. 

Eight hours a day I heard

the raucous melody play

a singular note

plunked in rapid succession

an arpeggio of lies and fabrication. 

Downcast sweaty faces

blistered hands clapping

with dimwitted admiration,

a pathetic charade, but one 

of their own creation.

The shrills of indignity

echoed in my head,

Placid silhouettes

reflections of the dead.

A solemn testament to a 

downward progression

inequity masquerading in 

a history’s regression. 

I watched as a thick haze blazed

inside an angry red dawn.

Tick tock, tick tock 

another night gone.

ailments like chains

tethered to their beds

impatient they listen

a sinking feeling of dread.

The maestro cues the chorus

indignant voices piqued.

The conductor’s arms flailing

a crescendo at its peak

The chains become tighter

their icy hold steadfast,

the dead join the chorus

with a monotone gasp.

The atmosphere thickens

the sky burns with rage

the virtuoso bows and

slips from the stage.

I listened to Arrhythmia sing

of a culture’s bitter sting.

I saw a broken heart in fibrillation

its limbs in deterioration.

but underneath the shuffle

I heard another tempo.

A subtle measured beat,

an adagio of empathy

where streams compassion flow,

and broken lives are made complete.

humanity in uninterrupted harmony, 

a living rhythm 

guiding our very feet.