The Mercy We Were Sold
And when life grows weary of our existence
yet refuses to grant us rest,
it offers the illusion of mercy—
a borrowed peace,
unknown to the poor,
for desperation is cheaper than chains.
The poor embrace it without intent,
surrendering their days to absolute oblivion,
trusting promises conditioned
by the mercy of those who stand ahead of them.
And when circumstance bares its teeth
in a falsely gentle grin,
we cling to faith—
the kind that teaches us to see wounds
as the beginning of labor pains,
that persuades us to give thanks
for the injuries we did not choose.
When living exhausts us,
we fall back toward our Maker
with the shrill cries of ignorance—
accusations for what men refused to restrain.
We turn to the Psalmists for persuasion,
for echoes of a Messiah yet to arrive,
aid stretched across centuries,
hope, the lowly clutch until their final breath.
Then the glories of old age
grow shameful beside a life measured by profit.
The youth spit curses at the bent and broken,
while the elderly beg time
to leap backward—
to erase the grounds where their errors bloomed.
Oh, how my spirit aches
at what a great civilization has become:
valor reduced to noise,
integrity cloned into contradiction,
rigor traded for applause.
The poor grow poorer,
the dead dream of peace
beyond damnation—
and we call this progress.
W