Scribblings

The Man with the Tiny Hands

Your message is so empty,

That even the chinking echo

Inside the vessel,

Makes no sound.

Your need for exclusion,

Makes me boycott your noise.

I see no substance

Behind your styled hubris.

Your offering to belong

To a genetic class,

Might seem safe and warm

To the many scared of the few.

They might not see a past repeated,

That to be brave;

Is to walk through fear.

That to be free;

Is to accept the being

Of those that are.