Tripping the fires
Of ones imagination,
In ancient prayers attire.
Native fingers dance
Upon organic fabrics
Of a corporate man.

She just withers. Old;
Brittle, cold in shiver
Lingering in the textile
Of the vile soul.

Bats that shattered
Glance to onlookers,
As patterns take form,
Her poor battered
Hands tremble more.

Corporate America
Stands waiting in line;
Time's steady tapping
Foot rattles the eyes
Of collapsing study
Within their wooden dummy.

The lines go forever.
Upon the countryside
Winds a foolish birth
Of stride for better.

White collars popped,
Waiting to be dressed.
While a blue jean step
Dresses the last thought.

As...

Her fingers bleed.
The needle eats
Through helping hands
To remind that she,
The factory, too is man.

And amongst the savage
Ever wading valleys
America's true colors
Paint the cavernous.

Red, White, Blue...
Lights the step
Of conforming request.

The checker faced
Seamstress sews on.
As each addict seems
To meets his ease
Upon receipt of bond.

She smiles there as
Multi collard America
Grins like a fucking idiot.
They awe at her craft,
To the point they
Blind themselves
To the hideous hatch.

Amongst the crosshairs,
There lies her angst.
Weaved into each stitch
The smiles of care
Rage in the blaze of a bitch.

She owns you.

Consumed your glee
With exchange of receipt...
Then worked in her pain
To pierce the action
for which it's been made.

And as you stroll off,
She wipes her tears;
Giggles through cough.

As she weaves
Disease into savvy steps,
Signing another soul
To sin, Per Suit of Happiness.