Grace Is a Price I Can Not Pay.

By Lavance Jethro John

My wallet, empty; no coins, no dollars. 

Their existence like clouds, can’t touch or sense—

Only look upon sky’s, hope beyond fence

As the future–brute hands–strain our collars.

We’ve paid for every price, in whole and some.

To each their own credit, lives bullied by tax

As the revolving door of green stunts our relax,

With the sorrows of man meek in their hums. 

Mighty few can swim in seas rich in grass, 

No pollen or bees to distract their game. 

The greener their field, the lesser we blame, 

On facets of goodness, their statues brass. 

They rest on the shoulders of willful men, 

Cogs to a machine, like angels to God, 

Who sang their father’s hymns and bled for his cod

He reeled in to fish for an easy win. 

As they eat, we don’t question calories 

Piled up in thousands, bloating their stomachs, 

Rendering minds dim and bodies havocked 

To which suffering fades from memories.  

So how do we recall the blood they drew, 

Pig-like in hunger but human for rage

Which cooks their own history page by page

Feasting on the chars bidding us adieu? 

This insatiable appetite, a crux

To understand which side those clouds can heed. 

Investing for us or a goodful steed,

So master’s can whip us and give two fucks? 

And we say its graceful, Amen for all, 

Rejecting scars scattered like stars in the night, 

Chipping at the boards upholding the fight

Leaving us timbered, grieved, head against wall.

So, to hell with the transference of soul, 

Among the mimicry of my savior

Who, like kids without a father, have sinned, 

Slayed, grubbed, killed into debauchery---grinned, 

For MONEY, purchases gained, people burned

You’ve seen it plenty; darkest desire,

Rigor of gasoline poured in fire. 

Our message---a patron---uselessness earned

By Lavance Jethro John