with purpled rage i strike the page, <br />with words i cant contain. <br />whether to justify or testify, <br />that lives be not lived in vain. <br />all that's strange, the cry for change, <br />the burned out buildings moan. <br />the tried and true, the old and new, <br />the lonesome refugee's song. <br /> <br />no need for preacher, or well paid teacher, <br />this blade against the wheel. <br />no vain illusions driven by confusion, <br />let us speak of what is real. <br />the blood stained hands of arrogant man, <br />that cannot be washed clean. <br />the hollow greed that takes from need, <br />the faces that haunt my dreams. <br /> <br />the cost of war, capitalism's whore, <br />driven by the oil that kills. <br />human rights, the common fight, <br />against those who take what they can steal. <br />the unborn child of meek and mild, <br />will never know the breast, <br />while pawns disguise the truth with lies, <br />hiding the sins they wont confess. <br /> <br />black and white, but day and night, <br />the blood of both runs red. <br />i hear the voices, the price of choices, <br />hear the lament of the dead. <br />religion's drugs, the fearful hugs, <br />can no longer fill the bowl. <br />the bodies frail, starvation's hell, <br />leave marks upon the soul.<br /><br />Eric Cockrell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lonesome-refugee-s-song/
