Of the People

There’s always steel-eyed trepidation. 
Especially when yer poor, automatically suspect,
not in vogue with fashion or manners expected. 
Though there’s plenty of blame to go around,
it gets stuck right here.
Adversity happens pervasively. 
Tragic heroes get special prayers,
funds raised through makeshift fairs,
helping hands clapped across their back. 
Except cast offs across the sacred track,
proffers of papers that don’t quite pass inspection.
Of course, we reap treatment we deserve. 
If we live beyond the pale,
whatever be our tale,
it’s our rightful place to serve in silent awe. 
Our cross to bear, because we’re born impure. 
Damned lovely that source can be so sure.  Insurrection
never condoned, nor endured. 
Suffer contrition for sad condition,
failed dreams, unseemly scraping by. 
‘Tis not an Imperial I who makes these rules. 
Thus it’s ever been, will be, unless at last we choose
honor, admit reality of human institutions
as negotiations for solutions,
until we can agree the power of fusion
surpasses perceived utility of mutilation.

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