CHIMAERA

The idea that us as a nation can ever enjoy perfect security is an illusion,
Is a question referred to the gods,
When we are to wear our holsters;
And in our hands bear the tasks to search with hunt dogs;
the solutions to our unending challenges.



The dogs bark endlessly,
Wishing they’d be disembittered from this endless suffering,
‘Cause they can no longer pick their bones in the street,
Since none in the neighbourhood has meat to eat,
For if it is well with the dustpan; only then can it be well with the dustbin.


Our hope for a better tomorrow becomes disillusioned,
Our souls for too long has ran this endless marathon,
Our strength is failing,
Our faith long lost and abandoned,
We no longer yearn for our choice but we are forced.



The poor no longer has his peace,
‘Cause nothing to call his piece,
All that is left is suffering taking the stead of stew.
Is this what we prayed?
Or is this what we yearned?



They bring us sound Manifesto; to win our hearts with empty promises like pikes,
They bait the multitudes with their agabagabious gifts,
To win our minds so they could go for their businesses;
where abound uncontrolled spend rifts,
I call them “Chimaera.”



©P. McCoy
{BIG-DREAMS INC.}