You Haul Poem by Rhet Topham

It has been 3 weeks,
Or it was believed to be so,
No one really knew,
And too dark to draw a tally.

But now the sunlight dances on
Cargo wall,
Pulsating through air holes,
Or bullet holes,
Intentional or not,
We call it home.

With Streaks of oil and blood
Dampening the floor beneath our feet,
And scratches, where fingernails clawed for freedom,
Their breakage scattered on the floor,
And somewhere, someone justifies this inhumanity,
With slavered tongues.

This sweeping sunlight knows no struggle,
Not this abomination,
Not this synchopatic pulse between black heart and ego,
Not this icy chill from deadened eyes
Counting wads of benjamins.

To the helpless,
That burn then swallow an ember,
That sears and burns thru the throat,
All voices immolated,
Without the necessary firery protest,
Just know;

The earth shall not bear the pain of this pointless human loss,
Nor rejoice in this cruel emptiness.
Just wait.