rhyms
For Lowe, P
Amidst the tempest's rage and lashing sea,
I stand, bound to the mast, chained, but free.
A vessel of dreams, once sturdy and grand,
Now sinks beneath the weight of poverty's hand.
The storm clouds gather, dark and foreboding,
Apathy's embrace, the government's loathing.
Oh, how they revel in our desperate plight,
As we drown in the depths of endless night.
The chains that bind me, etched with sorrow's ink,
A metaphor for the burdens that I think.
Struggling against the tides of destiny,
But my voice, a whisper, lost at sea.
Invisible hands, once held in trust,
Now clenched in fists, the ties of disgust.
The promises broken, illusions shattered,
Leaving wounds that bleed, unhealed, and battered.
