Stigmas fall like rain
upon the backs of the young,
souls rooted to broken stone.
There are no sidewalks here only streets.
Colors fade to gray.
There are no homes here only government structures erected as gods
creeping through the veins of the hungry.
Restless dreams given from broken walls,
taken captive by plates filled with rationed mantras
sung by those who hear but do not listen.
Poverty like a cancer grows
binding the arms of the young
to whispers from stone.
*new writing published this morning on Spillwords