Slum Cell

Dreary days, stuffy air,
in a chicken coop.
Surrounded everywhere,
the air as fresh as a used rag,
people stuffed like slag in a gutter.
Do they even live ?
Seem like addicted zombies
walking the endless road,
the endless ‘struggle’
in hope to struggle no more.
Like a chicken walking through fire,
in hope of a different future.

They’re not alive,
they don’t live.
No dust kicked up,
if they seize to breathe,
no matter how much they give.

The primordial soup of suffering
within this moving metal tube.
Bitter bickering folk, the third estate.
In a system designed to keep them there,
“Suffer here, good peasant. Suffer some more, maybe you’ll be able to afford a car and
suffer on the roads for another hundred years”

“In a big maze you’ll run, dear members of the third estate, running for the nonexistent exit, keep running along, little mare”

Keep running, keep suffering,
be a contributing citizen.
You’ll die muttering
“I’ve suffered, when will I get to live?”