Rich
people
step on us;
they
promise
no more wars,
yet
shower
bombs on the brown.
Oil,
sucked
out of the ground,
gluts
vampires,
whose victims
dry,
thirst,
give up the ghost.
Kings
trample
on the killed.
Gold,
wrested
from the earth,
glows,
shining
over the shadows.
Lords,
stomping
on the peasants;
haves,
squishing
boots on slaves.
Cash,
raising
from below
those
crushing
ants in the dirt.
A
voice,
one day, will rise
up
from
the wretched soil,
a
cry
for everyone,
‘No
boots
on the ground!’
Infinite Ocean 
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