plantations, slavery and society

we have been planters,
fields sorted out and crops cultivated,
seeds littering our pockets,
saving every potential gain.

sewing in our blood,
the way we weave to and fro
and inordinately calm the masses
with what we grow.

they sit on the sidelines,
sipping their life’s lemonade,
the product and delivery of us.
we, the farm workers.

they savour little,
the profits of our labour
lining their pockets:
a suitable exploitation.

it’s a strange relationship,
where the sun might as well beat down
on either collective set of brows
but we enjoy the weather most.

it’s not out of fear for toiling,
it’s not out of doubt for laziness,
it’s the asphyxiation of thinking
what disaster comes when we rest.