What say you, when the rent is due?
by Sona Wilae
Why shrill squalid souls for cheap wine?
Your children await greens and bread,
swollen stomachs of dark unrest.
Ghosts permeate their seams of wood
dry-rotted, while termites seek skin
of the oppressed, daunting failed light,
happy in joyless dreams, do tell?
Graves tremble with resurrecting
grace, revealing hard pale secrets
told to wander the halls of minds
uncovering disgraces of blood.
Welcome pain and celebrate you,
open the portals of the gene tree.