Blessed be the hands

that weave the threads

pick the plants

overworked bodies of a forgotten war

wounded of Vietnam

Left open sores

That comprise my clothes

Cover my toes

Whose children breathe in sharp dust

little ones of Africa

held hostage working in open graves

Mines of must

tiny hands in cramped spaces

Death insurance, one has gone

beast of our longing, snapping commercials

Trap 2.0

Blessed are the bodies that have become as clay unto the earth to soon

robbed from their parents in an effort to get paid

a complex narration of monopoly money

driving force, grandmas hands

Chinese sweat shop, work of desperate land

crystallized lies

the sewing circuit, energy of youth drained

over heated, over worked and told

to hide the blame

silent cry of women roar

As pocketed stocks soar

Bombs over Bangladesh

while children weep

stepping over dead bodies

while making shoes for our feet

robbed from their parents in an effort to get paid

House built on sand

errors been made

woe to the creators of this silent war

taking our lives in the name of who?

And who knows what for