Cut deep, dirty feet
Filled with stones from broken homes.
Red scars and crashing hearts,
Chaos for the rest of us, giving us enough
To complain about and do without.
Foot prints, beings with stints,
Leading from and to the hungry few.
Broken hands and dying lands,
Tools used to kill us, a slow-grown lust
To fool the fool and kick the stool.
– Brittany Rose