They're inching near my folded arms. What am I to do? What am I to think when their dream becomes tattered, When their hope lives so near mine and mine's alive and theirs is writhing on the ground, young and old, emptied of food for consideration, stretched out, ready to stiffen of winter's march? O! The growl will not lessen! The din of barrenness augments its dreadful noise! I know the thrum striking at madness- the thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum, it shakes the refrain of humankind. These hungry sounds are moving upon my back. Hunger stands open-mouthed at my feet. Will I deny it, unbelieving in my own, my own hunger licking at my toes? I wake to the noise. Shudder. Believe. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)