Faces in the tiles

Obscure, drawn, demented
With mouths agape
We blend in wishing to stand out

The mop that sloshes
Keeps us clean
But below its dark and dingy

Our screams of pain
Aching to be heard
Are masked by the ever shiny wax

Too long have the feet of oppressors trodden us down
The scuffs that scar these weary forms
But the day has come

Voice has reached the mouthing
The trapped are breaking free
Too long unheard, too long absurd

Now we stand on high
Our feet on even ground
No boot shall ever again trod us down