there is Every Man who walks the long mile
plodding upon the graveled road of judgement
his feet bearing the casualty of avariciousness
a non-complaining man of simple means
he is compelled to perform a supplication
those that hold his means and manner
those that demand his dominion
graze upon his meagreness and humility
no thought given to plight or pain
their demand the holy gospel of exchange
they are fore bearers of blood sucking lice
infecting insects of societal woes and want
these modern-day temple money changers
the constant corporate foot upon the neck
they are the intentional squanders
the desiccation of a nation’s soul
yet they persist by manipulated taking
everything that is evil persists in them
their noose that delivers the pound of flesh
is the corpus of monetary foundation
the man is Every Man Every Woman Every Child
his burden the harlots of finance
yet the man is blind to the casualty of lies
his feet bloodied from the long walk
he struggles as the distance grows greater
and the lie becomes a truth denying his dream.

©2012, Donald Harbour

A den of robbers are in democracy’s temple

Sometimes I don’t believe what I have said,
that said, where does that leave what you
have said? A crab of half truths scurrying
across the sands of mendacity, clicking its
edible pincers, seeking a rock to hide under.
Such is the voice of babble we hear, believe.
You meet a woman, she smiles, you lie, she
knows you have lied and lies to you, it is
written in your faces, transposed in your words.
Crabs, seeking a rock, trying to avoid the
trap, to be cooked and eaten by your own words.
A business deal is sealed, hand shakes all around,
you believe you got what you wanted, so does the
other side, garlic butter awaits your fate.
Squeeze a little lemon on my meat before you
pop it is your mouth to be consumed,digested.
But first you have to crack my shell, not an
easy task when your only crackers are your
ego of brinkmanship. Tortoise of the mind
has spawned the sand with the eggs of proglottis.
And so, you reproduce your self, feeding on the
soul and pocketbooks of those you deem lesser.
A tapeworm of society filling your jowls with
more than needed or can be held in a lie, that
sack of damnation, ones cuniculus to the
underworld of greed. A den of robbers is in
the temple of democracy, but who will
overturn the tables of the money-changers? Who?

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour