The Writers
-C. Taylor
Oh, how they fear us,
The Big Men,
The Dogs.
We are the tiny flea,
too srnall for them to bite,
underneath
their collar.
Our words reach all the other tiny ones
bringing them together in thought
focusing their tiny voices until
millions strong,
the voices make
a shout
In many countries they kill us
for our words
and here,
though they do not kill
they investigate
“Find this flea
who dares to speak
the truths we would bury!"
They roar
...and the policemen nod their heads
and scurry...
And even though
we believe we are free
many are silenced,
silently.
"Ah ha! We have found one!
Take his food
and house
and he will shut up
while he scavenges about
searching for scraps"
We fleas are hard to kill, though.
We remember our hard lives,
and we speak to one another,
passing along
the Words.
Many times
we have hid the Words
amongst piles of others
changing their forms slightly,
to disguise them
so that only other fleas can find them.
Sometimes the Dogs themselves
like the piles of words
in their pretty sentences
and pay to buy them,
but their lives being easy,
and their pride hard,
they pass by the well hidden truths.
Many are killed, jailed, blackballed, disgraced
these tiny flea-philosophers,
but another always takes their post,
and the words themselves,
the Truths
refuse to die.
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From the book
"The Butcher's Block: Poems of Poverty"
by Chris Taylor
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