Life is particular -

It chooses the strong,

Holds them beneath it's wing -

Leaving the weak to struggle.

The strong sit up on their pedestals,

Taunting those souls,

With their heads hung low.

So many beatings in a life time,

And still the weak trudge on.

The strong raise their whips -

Another slash, another shot.

The weak fall lower,

Dragging their bodies through the mud -

Barely holding up their heads.

The waters come -

The tides swallow more pride -

Carrying it to the strong,

Making their immunity stronger.

The weak cry out, and claw at the waves -

They scream, 

Until the water drowns them out,

Pushed to the bottom,

And held down with the weight of their pain.

Suddenly, one hand reaches out of the sand -

Eyes pop open, and a breath is released.

Gripping to the ocean floor,

You see a body rise -

Behind it is another.

Tearing, frantically, at the sandy floor -

An army slowly rises,

Bodies with bruises, scrapes, burns -

Arms, covered in scars -

Legs, with the weight of the world. 

The weak grow strength,

And fight to the surface,

Breaking through the black waters.

Faces -

With battle wounds,

Reach their arms out -

With rage.

The strong in numbers, grow,

But are not of one.

Those born of strength begin to flounder,

As the weak masses grow stronger.

An uproar of pain escapes - 

The weak becoming the strong,

And the strong - the weak.

Author's Notes/Comments: 


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