Wasteland

Where have they gone
Sweet flight of thought
Grounded
Mind mired
Bogged down,
Watching the mouths
Open close
Open close
Nothing of importance said.
Peacocks fluff
Feathered foliage
Look at me
They seem to say
As they walk on by,
While the peasants toil
Their eyes say it all
As blood begins to boil
Harder
Faster
Work work work some more
You have no life,
So that we have ours,
New plumage needed
More wallets to fill
As somewhere
Down below
Foundering beneath the rubble
A single flower dares to seek
The sun on high,
Roots seek the moisture
A kind word
Needed to thrive,
To rise above
The fray
Of a wasteland.