My Clan

My clan, the poor, for whom I write; cant read! The grand elite that reads, berates my words! Well; not prepared to cede their greed and lead... I grieve; I grieve at this unkindest world! I dip my hand in my peoples warm blood and hard impress my palm on those cold hearts. They turn colder; their eyes eject bad blood; and with deep disgust my all efforts they thwart! I write again the same hackneyed essay with grit unsealed, and with unfading sheen. I know I gain nothing in this dour way; neither laurels, nor rich dollars to preen! No modesty indeed! I do this feat... it's but my well opted passage to vent proxy tears of those I represent to whom I owe my thought and poetic feast. Garlands and glory are mutable; die soon! Die hard efforts do live for times umpteen as etched murals in my social bystreets. Today alive or years after as fossil stone I see them greet me like Christmas joy sleet!