Escape

Imagine no cars, nor screens,
Nor electric sounds or simulated dreams.
Every day one arises, dark and cold,
Goes out to meet the day,
Hands tired and old.
Glory, they say in the books,
Undying fame. Can we imagine it?
We aren't the same.
The men of old had only one way,
To escape death and slow decay.
To hear voices raised, songs raised up
That intoxicating love of the crowd was enough.
If not glory then what?
Every bit of us is shaped up,
'Pon mountains of corpses, rivers of blood,
Billions of tears, a drowning flood.
Without that chance dream,
Nothing but meat,
To join our countless fathers,
In an endless dark stream.

-Pablo Washington