midst the playthings of the rich
just beyond the champagne bubble
out of earshot of the butterfly people
in the dark shadows where no one looks
there you’ll find poverty and destitution
dance a macabre dance of survival.
In Mammon’s city of grand illusions
where rivers of wealth feed frivolity
in its twisting dark and musty lanes
where the light of hope seldom shines
an army of the living dead sweat and toil
polishing the tinsel, changing light bulbs
refilling the champagne bottles
nothing must stop the flow of frivolity
or the butterfly people will die.
A dream deferred, where does it go?
Is it stored in some labyrinth of the mind,
does it fade and waste away,
gone, forgotten, lost,
or does it become a burden
that weighs heavier with the years,
a burden that breaks you,
poisons your thoughts with regret
like a fog clouding your mind
in that bitter taste
of what could have been.