stillness woke
stretch’d its appendages

out from an otherwise

comfortable fetal position
pivot’d its time-crust’d feet
toward the base of the

concrete foundation call’d

yellow brick road;

and stillness cuss’d
when it stubb’d its toe
and stillness fuss’d but
still to this day, nobody cares to know

the mislaid foundation blocks
that this layers did their best to forget

stillness wishes it could fill

the potholes in our lives
but we can’t be fill’d by

broken bricks of consiousness
we crave the scent of blistering tar
in the core that never will seal shut

our ever-widening gaps

it really wasn’t that long ago

when the wind wind

caught the stillness off guard,

and wind sign’d a concoct’d petition,
took up residence in an old neglect’d ward
tore down the historic landmarks
and put up pretty condos that were affordable to those
whose hands never had to lay one single solitary brick
for a wage call’d way below minimum. . .

and when the uprising of the wind

came against the brick wall. . .

and yellow clash’d with red

and brown claw’d the surface of the

smooth white marble blocks
the pedestal where social justice
finally lost its ever-trusting head
to the chosen chipp’d bits of sophisticat’d bricks. . .
those slumlords who mov’d to the alabaster burbs
leaving undocument’d motherloads of solid rock on purpose
aliens with no nation under a GOD we think is open
on weekends only—and the rest are destin’d

to be consistently  truck’d by the system
for it does not good for the left behind
topine away for the fulfillment of a holo-dream
and they are stuck in stillness
waiting for the hope of one last weekend lay
in silence of a shrill construction season

© 2006 cynth’ya lewis reed
all rights reserv’d

(created 2:43 a.m. on 5.5.2006)