Theorem Unspoken

The poor are scrapping crumbs from the tables of the rich
Still struggling to afford rice, spice and tents to pitch
And the growing youth slowly dies in poverty
This, in the metropolis, is a permanent melody

It is not a landlocked country bordered by war
At least not bombs and guns and a bulletproof car
But moral decadence and perhaps policy diffusions
The fumbled communion and upsetting intrusions

And in this silence exist a loud shriek
Continuing to exacerbate until the last creek
Whitewashed, blinded and thrown into the labyrinth
And a decade of stagnation is not really a misprint

Perhaps a malefaction or a misperception
Between unspoken supremacy and a shivered weapon
But who would know what is wrong from right?

Who would have the will to watch what might?

Better yet, who would speak up and lead tonight?
To uphold the truth and once more write?

Or will we all scorn and lock jaws in fright?

Or sell our souls to the fore on sight?

-PRK-