Wednesday, May 27, 2009
We are from forgotten places,
unneeded by the current times,
unnoticed and unheeded.
We are made weak by the weight of our past:
We are frequently tired, tripping over fallen hemms
but we are not embarressed, we escape notice,
and our fall is what is left of our pride.
We do not hold our heads up, but neither down;
we look straight, straight at you,
judging the angle of your returning gaze,
measuring its brevity
if returned at all.
We are quiet and to the side,
observing, judging the players in the current,
the present world order.
We are forgotten and poor, left behind by progress,
drifting to the sides of the great human push.
You'll see us in your periphery, if you take a moment
to notice - you'll see us, walking slowly along -
- with nowhere important to go, in our out of style pants,
synched up tight at the waist, material bunching like unused momentum -
eyes humbled but not cowed - looking straight back at you.
We don't have style, yesterday has no motivation to change,
although we do,
we do change.