Every picture strikes a chord, a scenario
of years long gone, long hidden.
I’ve forgotten my forefathers, hard
working farmers, victims of Depression,
war, disease, lost friends. You’re gone.
Soon, too soon we follow our own parade.
Someone said once “one day older,
one day closer to the end.” I ask the end of what,
the end of a hard day’s work, shoveling stalls,
reaping fields of wheat, or reaping the dead
from wars declared by the rich, the arrogant,
narcissistic kings living in gold and silver
while their followers sleep in hovels declaring
victory over their hard days, slavery never sleeps.