Privilege . . .

they bake their bread on the backs of your seed . . .
                      and make your cities crumble . . .
they sit in black suits
                                   smiling
             with concrete dust
                                   filtering through their teeth
sifting out your bones . . .
                        to make their gold . . .
                                                   it lies cold and curdled
                                                         beneath their thrones . . .  imagined fires
                          unlit by the stillness of your heart . . .
                                                                                your dreams un-mentored
                                                                 are flavored with the weft of their expectations while
                          their road, endless and dark with shards of scorn
        and yours  . ..  have ended
beneath the bridge of time
                                        as it sinks into the river
of loss . . .