The Spoils of Class War

The storm comes to break
on our houses.
The angry winds,
Spiriting us from our
worldly possessions,
Lifts them up and away
into the hands
so soft,
Neither scarred nor
blistered
by the toils of labour,
To further stuff their wallets
filled with bricks,
To further pad their bedding
filled with notes,
As we shiver in the cold,
Our work heating those who
Robbed,
Pillaged,
Plundered.

Rolling-thunder-cloud

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