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It’s as if to be real

you and I must garner backers

without a rib to call our own.

We make ripples

with daily effort and then suddenly

flood the place with anger.

Ours is the anger

of the lowly,

we see life

from the knees up.

What vision we had

on that glorious day,

even the weather

stood aside and let us pass.

But because we could not write

our hearts could not be read,

and when we wrote

it’s then we could not publish.

And so a so-called prince

came along and told our story.

He called us “feeble weavers”

ignorant fury

animal instinct

wild in the streets.

If only we had means

then we would give light

to meaning. But for now

it seems royalty will keep writing

the book on right-of-way

and we again shall lay

our lives by the wayside.