Poetry: Brand

passersby in gilt-lit gray walk the roads beyond the grove
emblazoned by the seeking signs of names in capitals, a trove 

and on their tiptoes, over the fence, they can see the lurid lights
that hover above figures, stitching, sewing blood in gold delights 

with fingers scarred by needles forged in alleyways in rotten cores
of apple cities breaking sky with iron pillars’ ticker scores 

they are the bridled, underneath the weight of paper pulp dyed green
passing through their hands like water, touched but never truly seen 

and when their daily work is done, they trudge outside the grove at night
but all the world outside the bars is ridged with ledges of great height 

ledges climbed with ladders hot to touch by broken, withered hands
ledges climbed by those with gloves bought by popular demand 

and so the bridled stand and watch, the eternal vigil driven
as others far ascend to heavens with their hard work freely given

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