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.