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Trees are no longer our towers
and concrete grows faster than flowers,
and we know what the other
half of the world needs to buy.
There’s numbers in buildings
we don’t understand
when the other half only
need a helping hand.
Yet, when the prices fall
the rich ones, oh, how they cry.
These words that we can’t comprehend
are surely the beginning of the end
for why is it the poor man
is the first to stand and give ?
The rich, they build;
they only want more
waving their notes
over high dollar stores
while the other half
only pray to live.
The loss of a dollar
that may cause one to weep
is nothing compared
to a food price so steep
in countries where starvation
is an endless haunting ghost.
So it seems to me
that this world is unreal
when so many care not
how the dying feel
they only travel to see it,
say I’m sorry,
then they come back and beast.

Poem by Donna Oates – Published with permission. All rights reserved by the author.