The Appeal

My biggest dream seems to be an unreal appeal:
If I could shoulder the bolder of world disorder, Compress the distress into a wall as mortarPress down the brown goop that sticks and gripsOnto our people, our nation, of which an unbalanced rationAre starving, swaying, undoubtedly payingFor lack of green, like money or land- more like sandSifting or drifting through fingers of calloused palacesKnown as the human body but these temples are shoddyFrom dirty streets, not fit for elites with silky sheets.As a class en masse, safe from harass and lambastes, We must lift, shift, lend and tend to our fellow manWho feel hollow and harrow imbued with sorrowNot to mention hunger which growls like thunderBursting in their belly, cursing that Hell should beTheir only world. From ours they've been hurledAnd left bereft of a beautiful life. There's nothing but strife.I'd give a limb if I could fill to the brim a infinite potWith coins, bills- the whole lot and offer grandeur to the poorPeople who are people, part of us like the steeple of a church.Let the world lurch into a rhythm of humanitarianism And feel the real appeal of this dream so extreme.  

© Mikal Minarich