as forsaken as the hundred mile forced march
in the blistering sun
wrapped in the liniment of mourning
eyes like haunted shadows
watch the approaching dawn with
keen regrets

they gather themselfs prisons within prison
and shuffle forward into the sweating air
the sound of their sandle clad feet gathers
untill the sound repeats in on its self
and the echo sounds like the world itself
being ground down

the measured politics of this
woman's labours trouble me
she knows the key and combination to free
but profits from their caged destitution
she thinks it ain't so funny now is it

patterns etched in the face of
circumstance are ones of destitute sorrow
romance you with promise
but deliver nothing but offense

defying the odds
freedom is calculated
while desperation can only be measured
in miles or blood